


Searching for the Same Thing

by heartofcathedrals



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Asthma, Friendship, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, Post-Hiatus, Romance, Sick Fic, Sickfic, Solo Tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17493572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofcathedrals/pseuds/heartofcathedrals
Summary: After 1D went on hiatus, Harry had convinced himself that a solo career and tour would be his time to find himself as an artist and adult, but now, years later, he feels more lost than ever. Back when it was just the guys, and the audience, he cared enough to put himself last. And he'd been doing just that all of his solo tour, following every one of his tour manager Jason's ridiculous rules and schedules, despite the hollowness it left him with. It's been more than two years since he's spoken to Louis, the one person who was always there to help him put the pieces back together, and he knows that he can't take back the ugly things he said in the meeting that tore everything, the band, his friendship, apart. But what do you do when your dream has come true, and it's not what you wanted after all?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! It's been so long since I've posted any writing, so I'm a bit rusty, but I wanted to get something new started to keep me going! I'm not sure how I feel about the title, so any suggestions are welcome!!
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments!

Harry shivered as the cool New York City air whipped around him and pulled his scarf so it covered his nose and mouth, the fabric meeting the rim of his aviator sunglasses. Somehow, he’d managed to slip away from Jason, his tour manager, without security, in the dark of the early morning. He was supposed to be at a network studio for an interview and performance, but Harry was done. He was done with Jason’s stupid rules and attitude, and he was done with being scheduled to death.

The thought of his schedule that day, a talk show interview and performance, photo shoot for Teen Vogue, outdoor sound check for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, exhausted him beyond his already heavy exhaustion. Harry’s solo tour had ended in July, but there had still been a calendar of events keeping him booked in Europe and the US through January: Radio interviews, magazine shoots, the parade, producing promotional content for the Grammys. None of that had ever bothered him much before, back when it was him and the guys together. But now it was just him trying on clothes and annoying the stylists, or frustrating writers and producers in the studio with his pranks and jokes, and it just wasn’t the same. None of these people got him the way the guys did, the way Louis did, even after everything that had gone down over the years, and none of the people he was currently surrounded by were willing to put up with his usual antics, which meant Harry had spent the last year learning how not to be himself. His solo tour was supposed to be his time to find himself as an artist and adult, but now, a year later, he felt more lost than ever.

Jason and Harry had been at each other’s throats on and off for the last month, that morning’s fight starting with Jason calling Harry a “pompous asshole” because he didn’t want to go to another 4 am interview and small performance. It was a last-minute addition that Jason hadn’t verified with Harry until the 2 am wake up, and Harry had spent a half hour reiterating to Jason just how much of a toll these early morning events took on Harry. 

There’d already been two that week, and Harry was so wiped that he could barely keep his head up. Being up before the sun had always sparked a level of nausea in Harry that could only be paralleled by the flu, yet he found himself sitting in the backseat of a nondescript black Suburban on his way to a morning talk show, the network name lost in the non-stop schedule. It was nearly three in the morning, his sinuses were on fire, and his head was pounding from the cold he was fighting, but he pressed on with the hope that doing the interview and performance would shut Jason up. Technically, he was Jason’s boss, and he needed to let him know that he’d crossed a line. He hated that firing him wasn’t an option without lawyers present and a large settlement deal; that clause had been haunting him ever since he’d signed the damn paperwork, and he knew he’d never make the same mistake again in the future once this current contract expired in two months’ time. In truth, Harry didn’t even care about the money. He was worried that public knowledge of the settlement would destroy his good name in the industry, which was one of his biggest fears.

“You told me to tell you when I’m overwhelmed, and I’m telling you that I am,” Harry had expressed as calmly as possible, which had taken every fiber of his being to do. He was known for being professional, and he wasn’t about to let Jason take that from him, not after a year of dealing with his bullshit. “I need a few hours of rest. You know that I wouldn't usually admit to that.” He could feel tears pressing against his eyes at the request, which so wasn’t like him at all; he knew that letting the tears fall would only make Jason’s attitude, and wrath, worse.

To those on tour with him, reliable was Harry’s middle name. Despite his high energy and impulsiveness, Harry was serious about his work. He always did what was asked of him, often at the expense of his own happiness and well-being. He could get on stage with a 102 fever, puke in a hidden corner, and get back out there as if nothing was wrong. He could perform on autopilot without any sleep and push himself to fake it until he was behind closed doors. Harry could do all of those things because he cared deeply about who he was impacting. Back when it was the guys, and the audience, he cared enough to put himself last. And he’d been doing just that all of his solo tour, following every one of Jason’s ridiculous rules, despite the hollowness it left him with. He’d convinced himself early on that it would all be worth it, but he couldn’t do it anymore.

“You’re doing this interview and the performance. I spent weeks selling your songs to the parade committee, so you can suck it up and show up for a few more gigs,” Jason asserted as he pulled out his phone and began typing. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to get all of this set up for you?”

“For me? I didn’t ask to do this stupid parade.” Harry knew it was a mistake the moment the words left his lips. Jason was good at getting him riled up, and he hated him for it. “And I don’t need your permission to rest!”

Jason laughed and shook his head. “Once again, proving just how much of a pompous asshole you really are.” 

Harry held his tongue as the words stung, afraid to dig himself deeper. Conversations with Jason had only grown more draining as the tour had dragged on, and Harry had reached his limit.

“Beyond “Sweet Creature” there isn’t one family-friendly song on your album,” Jason taunted. “We warned you about that in the studio, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“You told me they invited me to perform,” Harry argued, his voice cracking like it always did this early in the morning, which was why he hated performing before the sun came up. His voice, he knew, would be shit for the interview and performance. His cold, and jet lag, weren’t helping, either.

“You’ve been in this business long enough to know that isn’t how any of this works, Harry,” Jason said, shaking his head with a small laugh.

Harry wanted to respond, but couldn’t form the words. He’d always been so great at comebacks, but with Jason, they only ever seemed to invite more criticism. He got enough of that from the paparazzi and press, and definitely didn’t need it from the one person who was supposed to be looking out for him.

The car pulled into a delivery entrance and stopped, a metal door closing behind them. Jason got out, but Harry just sat there, his eyelids and chest heavy with cold and anxiety. He felt like utter crap and thought about curling up right there in the back seat. He wanted a cup of coffee, but that was against Jason’s rules; he knew it was bad for his voice, but that didn’t make him want it any less. Harry thought about letting Jason know that he thought he had a fever, but figured he’d just get on his case about that, too.

“Are you getting out, or are you gonna keep carrying on?” Jason’s voice was piercing, amplified by the tunnel beneath the studio.

Harry took a slow, shallow breath and bit his bottom lip. He couldn’t get his feet to move. Being asked to make a decision, it seemed, had finally thrown him over the edge. Harry remembered doing this when he was little and knew he was in trouble. He’d refuse to make eye contact and would freeze, hoping that the person yelling would just go away.

“Here we go,” Jason groaned, irritated. “It’s not like there are millions of people who wish they had your life.” Harry didn’t have to look at Jason to know his arms were outstretched, head shaking in disbelief, as he said this. 

Was he really being so ridiculous? Pompous? An asshole? Harry knew he wasn’t perfect, that he was so blessed and lucky to have the life he had, but he also knew that he needed to rest, could feel his body running on empty in every capacity possible. He had requested it when he should have demanded it, and now, he wanted nothing to do with Jason, contract clause or not, because after all of this time, Jason didn’t know Harry enough to respect how difficult it had been for Harry to ask for something so small.

“Fine. I’ll give you ten minutes to have your little pity party, but I expect you to be upstairs by 3:20. Understand?”

Harry didn’t move a muscle, just sat paralyzed in the car. He breathed a sigh of relief when Jason got a call and walked away. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing, which was starting to grow wheezy.

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Styles?” the driver, a young man, had asked, and Harry’s eyes snapped open at the realization that a stranger had witnessed the entire confrontation.

“Er, no sir,” he answered quickly, trying to get his brain thinking again. “Thank you for driving at such an early hour,” he added, pulling out his wallet and handing him a $100 as he exited the vehicle. “Be well.”

Harry spotted a door with a red ‘Exit’ sign atop it, and his feet pulled him in that direction without a second thought. Loneliness, Harry had realized, was being surrounded by people whose income depended on your image and performance. Why it had taken him so many months to realize that, even though that had probably been true in some form or another for years now, he couldn’t explain, but he knew, now, that that was the truth. He didn’t know why it made him miss Louis that much more, either, but it did. He pushed the door open and went out into the cold, legs only stopping blocks away when he couldn’t ignore the cold any longer.

He dug his gloveless hands deep into his pockets and rocked on his heels at the curb to stay warm as he waited for the crosswalk signal to turn. It was only November, but the afternoon sky was a deep gray. An interviewer the day before had mentioned the possibility of snow for the parade, and the thought had made Harry want to do nothing but curl up in his bed in his Tribeca apartment in a jumper with a cuppa, his phone turned off, which was against Jason’s rules, and the curtains closed. He’d owned an apartment in New York for some time, but he hadn’t gotten to stay or walk the city’s streets in nearly a year, and never without a security detail. The thought of such freedom was enticing, but he knew he couldn’t go back there. Not if Jason would be looking for him.

The mob of teenage girls closing in on him that time he’d tried to order Starbucks in Chelsea with security was enough to keep him from ever entertaining the thought of leaving his apartment ever again. It was surprisingly easy in the dark, though. He watched the traffic light to his left turn yellow and counted to five, knowing that the crosswalk would change the moment he stepped his foot off the curb. Taylor had taught him that little trick, and though he thoroughly disliked most things about her, he’d always been jealous of her knack for New York City secrets that made her seem like she’d lived there her whole life. Taylor could demand a rest day and not worry about the slack she got for it from her manager. Taylor could walk the city with her head held high like she owned every street there, and while a part of him cursed her for that very attitude, he also admired it.

His phone vibrated with a slew of texts in his pocket, but he ignored them and kept walking, his exhales through his scarf creating small clouds in the dry air. He could honestly care less about Jason, or any of the other people from tour. They’d had some good times together, sure, but he couldn't help but feel like everyone around him was just there to make money. Off of him. It was true, in a literal sense; the tour, and everything else around it, wouldn't have happened without Harry’s success. But the truth dug deeper than that: With 1D, it hadn’t always been about money, or at least hadn’t felt like it until Zayn left. They’d had a few spats about money in meetings, but outside of that, he’d only ever encountered a few people who he felt truly cared solely about the money, and they’d never lasted long.

Like Jason, who was probably the one calling him incessantly.

He clicked the lock button on his phone from inside his pocket and continued to walk the avenue, trying to clear his mind. Even with the scarf over his nose and mouth, the chilled air was relentless in burning his nose and throat. Harry thought about getting a cab, or taking the subway, but he wasn’t sure where to go or how to read the train maps. Looking up at the nearest street sign, he realized he’d been walking downtown. He could feel his fingertips going numb and knew that finding somewhere warm was probably best. He toyed again with the idea of going back to his apartment, but the thought of Jason forced his nausea to return. Harry just needed some time, away from it all, to gather his thoughts. And his ropy breathing. To have a cuppa. To sleep.

He pulled his phone out, scrolled through his contacts, and clicked on a name. It rang a few times before a sleepy voice picked up.

“Harry?”

And then there was a tickle, the same kind that would appear in his throat after he breathed in the smog from the smoke machines on stage. He stifled a cough, and then another one, before he ripped the scarf away from his face. He tried to hold his breath, to swallow slowly and let it pass, but the coughs came anyway, the dry air he couldn’t help but suck in between coughs making them deeper and louder. 

It always happened like this: Once he let the first full cough happen, his lungs would take over, muscles contracting and dictating when and how deep he could breathe in. He hunched over and wrapped one arm around his stomach while his other hand touched the wall of a building, willing his lungs to get it together. With every gaspy intake of breath and every chest rattling cough, Harry could feel whatever energy he had left leave his body.

“Lou?”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry woke in a sea of white blankets, the quiet and stillness of the room filling him with a sense of familiar calm that he couldn’t quite place. He blinked his eyes sleepily as they adjusted to the light, the nearby window bright with midday sun, and once he could see well enough, he noticed that a flurry of snowflakes was falling softly.

That morning’s events flooded back to him in an instant. “Fuck!” he muttered to himself, panicking as he searched the sheets for his phone. Had Jason called him? Surely, someone had to have tried calling by now. Why hadn’t it woken him? Fuck. He’d really fucked things up good this time. “What time is it?! Where’s my fucking phone?” Harry sat up and pushed the duvet off of his body, the room suddenly swirling around him as the pressure in his sinuses and lungs returned, his eyes shutting instinctively, left arm the only thing keeping him steady and somewhat upright.

“I turned it off,” Louis said quietly from where he was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. “And hid it.”

Harry opened his eyes slowly, afraid that looking up at Louis would shatter him the way he’d shattered Louis more than two years ago. He didn’t deserve this, waking up in Louis’ bed.Their bed. In the apartment they’d picked out together. The one with so much natural light that they’d run out to Bed Bath and Beyond ten minutes before closing the day they moved in to buy blackout curtains so that they could sleep in the next day.

“I know you well enough to know you need rest,” Louis explained as he came to sit on the edge of the bed. “And I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t let yourself have it without an intervention.”

Harry took a few shaky breaths as he tried to comprehend what was happening. He didn’t know what time it was, but he knew he was supposed to be working. He covered his face and tried to think. The interview and Teen Vogue shoot. The parade rehearsal. And he’d just walked out. Harry had never done anything like that during his entire career. He hadn’t stopped there, though. He’d called Lou, the one person he was sure would never talk to him again after everything, after every horrid thing he’d said that day in the hallway of Modest! Management, and Lou had picked him up from a random street corner in the middle of New York City at four in the morning without hesitating. Harry tried to keep the sobs that had been building up for so long inside, but couldn’t hold them back any longer. He sobbed and sobbed, his voice hoarse from his cold as he curled into a ball. Harry was breaking, drowning, in his guilt and fear and loneliness, and he didn’t feel like he deserved a rescue. “I’m sorry, Lou,” he blabbered, snot from his cold and tears mixing and running down his face, body shaking with every sob. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

“I don’t care about any of that right now,” Louis whispered, pulling Harry into his chest and holding him tight. “I’m here, Harry,” he assured, rocking him back and forth, one hand rubbing small circles on his back. “We’ll figure it all out later. You’re safe here. It’s okay.”

“M’not,” Harry sobbed, breaths short and wheezy. “‘M not okay, Lou. I-I should be at work. I should be w-working.”

“You need to rest, Harry. You’ve just about run yourself ragged.”

“I m-messed everything up. I fucked up and I c-can’t fix any of it.” He sobbed heavily, which caused him to cough and cough.

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis said, his hand feeling the back of Harry’s neck, and then his forehead. “You’re burning up! Were you trying to catch pneumonia out there in that cold this morning?”

Harry responded with a deep wheeze, his hand pressed against his chest as he tried to get a good breath in. God, he looked and sounded so pitiful. His shirt was wet with sweat and snot, and he could feel the fever burning through his body. He hated being like this in front of Louis, but part of him knew he wouldn’t care. Louis was better than that. He’d always been able to see through Harry’s facade, was always there to help him pick up the pieces when everything fell apart.

Louis lifted Harry’s chin up and brushed his hair out of his face. “Slow, deep breaths, yeah? I’m gonna see if I can find you some meds,” he explained, stacking two pillows against the headboard and gently guiding Harry so that he sat up against it.

“Lou?” Harry asked, sniffling and reaching out, grasping Louis’ wrist to stop him from getting up. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Louis handed him the box of tissues from the night table.“Because you’re sick and stressed and look like you could really use a friend right now.” Louis flashed his infamous smirk, half-smile, half-flirtation. “I’m gonna get you some tea, too. You like the orange cinnamon blend, yeah? Piping hot? I know the caffeine helps open your airways.”

Louis was gone before Harry could reply, so he rested his head to the side and tried to forget about his work schedule. It was impossible, though. Work was his life, and to rest was a luxury that he didn’t feel he truly deserved. He knew there’d be hell to pay at some point, when he and Jason were face-to-face, but he felt so sick, and the exhaustion, though he had slept some, weighed down on his eyelids and his tired lungs like bricks. How he’d perform in the parade tomorrow with his lungs so tight and irritated, he wasn’t sure.

Performing sick was one of the things Harry hated most. He hated the way management and interviewers asked him if he was okay when his voice started to give, and he hated that he had to lie. Paul used to make him sit with the vaporizer in their dressing room when his sinuses acted up, and always had his meds timed out so that he had a chance at getting better before it got worse. Paul was good like that, and Harry hadn’t realized just how much he had appreciated everything he had done for him when he was ill. Had Jason even noticed Harry’s fever? Would he have taken the moment to stop and make sure Harry was in good shape for the parade? Did he even care? Was it really all about the money for him?

“I found an old inhaler in the bathroom, not sure if it’s expired. Here’s some paracetamol for that fever, and some Sudafed for your sinuses,” Louis said, returning with a tray of medicine, water, and tea. Harry thanked him and went for the inhaler first, taking a quick puff and holding the medicine in his lungs for as long as he could. He repeated it and took a sip of the water, hating the taste of the powdery particles. After downing the two tablets, he picked up the cup of tea, the tendrils of heat meeting his nose.

The tea was Louis’ cure all for Harry. If he’d had a bad day, his stomach was upset, or his lungs were closing on him, Louis would make Harry a cup of cinnamon tea. Louis was obsessed with tea, and the first time he’d made this particular cup was sometime in the beginning of the On the Road Again tour somewhere in Europe. Harry had barely made it off stage before his lungs completely melted down. One second he’d been singing the last verse of “Best Song Ever” and waving goodbye to the fans as he and the guys exited, the next, he was hunched over in the hallway with his hands on his knees, chest muscles so tight he could barely get half a breath in. Louis had been there in a heartbeat, his hand on Harry’s back as he bent down to meet him at eye level. Together, they’d walked to the dressing room, where Harry had sat on the couch, red-faced, wheezing, and coughing. People were talking at him from every direction, and Louis had waved them off. His inhaler hadn’t worked like it usually did, and after a few minutes, he had started to panic. 

Louis had made him do a breathing treatment before the show, and though Harry had been annoyed at the suggestion, he had done it. He’d felt winded after sound check, the feeling lingering hours after, through a quick game of football, and dinner. Louis always knew when Harry was struggling, whether it was with fatigue, a cold, or his asthma, even if Harry refused to admit it. The nebulizer had been left out on the table in the rush to get ready, and Louis had filled it with medicine again so that Harry could do another treatment.

“Easy, love,” Louis had coached as Harry breathed in the medicine, but Harry just couldn’t get his lungs to slow down, and the attack left him coughing so hard that he started to dry heave. There was a small waste basket in front of Harry before he could even blink, and as he emptied his dinner into the pail, snot and spit everywhere, he had started to cry.

“S’okay, Harry,” Niall had assured him, and he’d felt a hand on his shoulder as Louis had wiped his mouth with a tissue. “I know how shite you must be feeling, but Liam just went to get a medic and we’re gonna get you all better, yeah?”

Harry could only respond with more coughing, pain searing through his chest with every laboring breath. Louis had pushed the nebulizer mouthpiece back into his mouth, giving Harry a few puffs of the medication before he started dry heaving again.

By the time the medic had come, Harry was sure he was dying. Thankfully, though, two back-to-back breathing treatments and some oxygen via a cannula placed under his nose got his lungs in line and somewhat relaxed. Louis had rubbed his back and wiped his face with a cool, wet washcloth, making sure to scoop his hair back into a neat pony so that it was out of his face. By the time he could sort of breathe, he was weak and trembling, the energy seemingly zapped from every cell of his body. Louis had made Harry tea, the same in the cup before him now, and though he’d shaken his head ‘no’ and reached for the garbage at the scent of orange and cinnamon, the first sip had tasted golden. He’d downed the cup in minutes and had relaxed against the couch, face still red and eyes puffy from crying and coughing, the medic insisting that he keep the oxygen on for a little while longer. Louis had laid there with him on the couch, running his fingers through his hair while Harry closed his eyes and focused solely on breathing.

Louis had insisted on giving Harry a piggy back ride to the bus that night and refused to let him sleep alone. “You scared the shit out of me, H,” he had whispered when he thought Harry was fast asleep, but the truth was, the medicine never really let him sleep. “You’ve gotta let yourself rest when you need it, love. You never let yourself rest.” That awful attack had brought them together after a rocky few months with Paul leaving and Zayn yo-yoing between staying and going. Everyone had tried being cheery and upbeat when Zayn had finally called it quits, but they were all at the point in the tour when jet-lag makes the days blend together and city names get lost in the shuffle. Secretly, Harry missed those days. The tour busses, hotel rooms, and venues. But he only missed them with Louis. And Niall and Liam. He was tired, then, but happy. Satisfied. He and Louis had bought the apartment a few months later, during the North American stretch of the tour. It had served as their home base in a world of planes and interstates, and being back gave Harry some comfort.

Together, Harry and Louis sipped their tea, though Harry noticed a shift in Louis’ body language. He wasn’t stroking his hair, or reaching for his hand, and Harry knew exactly what was on his mind.

Harry took a sip, and then a slow breath, before saying, “You’ve been really kind to me, Lou. Picking me up like that this morning. Letting me sleep. The medicine, the tea.”

“It doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. I mean, we haven’t exactly spoken about what happened that day. When you just…left.”

The words hit Harry square in the chest, but he took them in and nodded. He knew he could never take back what he’d said to Louis in a fit of selfishness, and he had resigned himself to the fact that the words, and his decision to cut Louis from his life in the manner that he had, would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“I mean, you told me I had just ruined your life and career,” Lou said with a small, sad laugh, a hand running through his hair. 

“Before it even started,” Harry finished quietly, looking down at his hands and the teacup in it, recalling how powerful he had felt when he’d first said it. God, he’d left that meeting feeling like he was on top of the world, done with everything and anything that was the band, and Lou, and he wasn’t sure how. Zayn had left months prior, but that had been a long time coming and no one was really that upset once the initial sting wore off. They’d just started talking about touring their new album, Made in the A.M., and things with Louis were as good as they’d ever been. How had things gotten so complicated and crazy so fast?

“You also said, and I quote, “I wish I’d never even met you, you fucking asshole. Thank you for keeping me-”

“From being the best version of myself,” Harry finished, their voices meeting in unison. Harry hated that those weren’t even the worst things that had come out of his mouth that day. The awful, retched words that had further destroyed everything good he had buzzed in his head.

Louis rubbed his thumb against the handle of his tea cup, anxious about how this conversation would continue. “You’ll always be an important person in my life, Harry. There’s no denying that. We had so much history, no pun intended,” he chuckled, but it was guarded, and Harry knew Louis was just trying to be himself, finding humor in a moment of unease. “A kind of friendship that I’ve yet to share with anyone else. But I can’t, in good conscience, just forgive you for what you said to me. And for walking away like that without even discussing our next steps.”

“If I could make it up to you, in any way, I would. I just don’t know how. I was so hurt, Lou,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he held back tears. “Like the rug had been ripped out from under me. Why…why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you discuss the hiatus with me first? We always discussed everything!”

Harry had walked into that meeting thinking that they were going to finish planning the A.M.tour, sign some paperwork like usual, and grab a nice lunch. He hadn’t expected Liam and Louis to interrupt the meeting to ask for a hiatus, and he sure as hell had no indication that everything they’d spent years building and sacrificing for would fall apart in less than an hours’ time. Sure, they’d written some songs on the album about some of their difficulties and the pain of Zayn leaving, and they had planned to take a break after a fifth album, but Harry had never imagined it would all happen so suddenly.

To make matters worse, Louis hadn’t ever mentioned that he’d been thinking of a hiatus. Not to Harry, at least. They’d been living together for months, and not one word had been uttered. Harry had never been met with such betrayal, and knowing that Louis had kept such a colossal secret was enough to rip his heart straight from his chest. Because in an instant, Harry had had to rethink everything, and everyone, he knew and loved, and he had had to salvage whatever he could of his future and career, even if that plan didn’t include Louis. He thought he could live with that. In that moment when he stood up and got in Louis’ face and spit those venomous words, he had convinced himself that it was the only way to make it through whatever was happening in one piece.

“The really hard part, Harry, is that I think you meant all of it,” Louis whispered.

“I thought I did,” he admitted, a few tears falling. He wiped them away and took a deep breath. “I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. Obviously, in hindsight, it wasn’t one of my best moments. But you put me in a really shitty spot, Lou. I thought you loved me enough to not put me in the middle like that. We always kept business and our relationship separate, and then you walked into that fucking meeting with Liam-”

“Because I knew how you’d react,” Louis interrupted, “and I figured that maybe bringing it up in the meeting would be the best way. But I was wrong, Harry, and I’m sorry, too.” Tears streamed from Louis’ closed eyes as he held the warm teacup between his hands for comfort. “I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, just like you. I wish I could go back and undo it. All of it. The Zayn stuff, that fucking meeting…”

“For the record, I don’t care about the Zayn stuff anymore,” Harry admitted, sniffling, tears falling uncontrollably now. “We all tried really hard to help him get back on track, but it wasn’t going to happen. Nothing we could have done would have kept Zayn from making the choices he did. I know you guys were close in the end there, and I know it hurt like hell when he ran off and signed with RCA after he begged for us to let him go and have a normal life out of the spotlight.”

“You were quite visibly pissed that I got close with Zayn, Harry. And I don’t blame you.” Louis reached his hand out and Harry took it. “That wasn’t fair to you.” 

“I was. But it doesn’t really matter much anymore, does it? Zayn fucked us all over, and now he’s stuck on the outside if we ever decide to go back to it all.”

“He left everything good behind without looking back. And then he fucking fought with me publicly about it.”

“Isn’t that what we did, too, though? In our own ways?” Harry reasoned.

“I guess.”

Harry wiped his face and sniffled back any leftover tears. “So, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. Do we have to have it all figured out right here and now?” Louis asked, placing his cup on the night table.

“I suppose not. We never really had it all figured out, did we?” Harry said, chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” Louis asked, sniffling but smiling since Harry had lightened the tone.

“Just that, after all this time, we’re here, together. Even though we didn’t always know what was coming next.” Looking up at Louis, Harry felt a rush of happiness. Of gratitude for this moment that he didn’t think he’d ever get to have. He’d missed this more than he’d let himself admit, and he knew that even though he’d loved the man in front of him from the very start, he’d only grown more in love with Louis over the years.

“I’ve thought about you every single day, Harry. Every. Single. Fucking. Day.” Louis was crying again, and Harry put his empty cup down on the tray, inching closer to put his forehead against Louis’.

“Me too, Lou,” Harry said, a tear sliding down his red, hot cheeks. “Me too.”

“I love you,” Louis whispered, pushing his lips closer to Harry’s, and for a moment, Harry wondered if all of this was too good to be true. If this was all just a dream, if he deserved any sort of forgiveness. He felt Louis’ lips press against his, and in an instant, the electricity between them was reignited. 

“I love you,” Harry said, unable to get enough of Louis, rising on his knees and wrapping his arms around his neck. He let out a small groan, and together they rolled over into the sheets, Harry’s fever, and schedule, forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks so much for reading! Please comment and let me know what you think/what you'd like to see. :)

Louis insisted that Harry take a long, hot shower while he fixed him some lunch, and as Harry stood in the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a towel that smelled like Louis, he couldn’t help but smile. He’d missed waking up next to Louis and play fighting him over the blankets. He missed their apartment with the leaky kitchen faucet and light in the living room that had to be turned off not by the switch, but by pulling the string from the fixture. They’d never gotten those things fixed because they’d spent so many of those months on the road, and Harry wondered if, in his absence, Louis had managed to have someone repair them. The thought was a sobering reminder that Harry had been gone for nearly two years, off on his own adventure and career. Glancing at a clock and seeing that it was a little past noon, Harry felt the crushing guilt and anxiety of knowing that so many people had been expecting him to show up that day pulling at the edges of his smile.

“Something’s eating you up,” Louis commented as he handed Harry a clean pair of jeans and a black t-shirt in the bedroom.

Harry took the clothes and lay the shirt on the bed so that he could get his legs into the jeans. “Today’s been great, Lou, but I can’t ignore work forever.”

Louis nodded, knowing where this conversation was going. “That’s just the anxiety talking. It was bound to start winding up sooner or later.”

“It’s my career talking, actually,” Harry corrected, pulling the black shirt over his head and chest. “But sure, let’s just blame it on the anxiety that Simon riddled me with.”

“You called me, silly. Remember?” Louis smirked. “And I’m sure that anxiety was there long before Simon; he only added to it.”

“Sorry. I’m just…,” Harry said, sighing as he rubbed his face. “I feel like absolute crap and I know I’m going to be in big trouble.”

“Wait wait wait,” Louis interrupted, eyebrows knitting in confusing. “Trouble?”

“I didn’t want to get into discussing Jason yet, but-”

“Are you dating someone?” A look of horror crossed Louis’ face as he thought back to their scene on the bed less than an hour ago.

“No!” Harry yelled a little too quickly. “Sorry, no. Jason’s my manager. He’s a soul sucking cactus who has a zillion rules that make no sense. I can’t fire him because of a clause in our contract. Come January, he’s off my books, so until then, I have to make nice.”

Louis thought for a moment, trying to get the facts straight. “He does know you’re his boss, right?”

“I’m not sure he sees it that way,” Harry explained, and Louis turned his head slightly, confused again. “I didn’t hire him; management did, and now I’m stuck with him micromanaging every millisecond of my life.”

“Managing it to the death, it seems,” Louis said, and Harry nodded in agreement as he followed Louis into the kitchen.

Harry coughed into the crook of his elbow and rubbed the burning it left in his chest as he sat down on a stool at the center island. “At this rate, I’m convinced he’s going to kill me.”

“Well, I’m guessing he didn’t notice your wheezing, which, no offense, has you sounding like a steam train. Paul would have had you laid up on the couch with your nebulizer by now,” Louis said, sliding the plate with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he’d made toward Harry.

“I haven’t exactly told him about my asthma,” Harry stated slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he waited for a lecture from Louis.

“Harry,” Louis warned, giving him a stern look.

“I know, I know. I was going to tell him once we got closer, but that never happened and-”

Louis shook his head and put a hand up. “I was going to say that I can’t believe he didn’t notice your cough or the fact that you wheeze at the first sign of spring. He didn’t see your meds?”

Harry bit his bottom lip and looked away. “I didn’t let him?” 

Louis let out a slow, long breath, gearing up to let Harry have it.

Harry tried to explain, his hands moving rapidly as he spoke. “He thinks I’m a pompous asshole who wants everyone to bow down and cater to me. He has all of these preconceived notions and none of them are true. You don’t know what he’s like, Lou.”

“Maybe not, but I do know what you’re like when you ignore your lungs on stage and wind up paying for it later.” Harry could hear the pain in Louis’ voice, could see it in the way his body had tensed, and he knew that to an extent, Louis was right. But he hadn’t been there these last two years, or met Jason, and Harry was sure that if he did, he’d find a way to understand.

“It’s different being on tour alone,” Harry argued. “I didn’t have anyone to cover for me on stage. I couldn’t just run off to the side-”

“You could have, Harry. You always did before without a second thought, so I’m not understanding-”

“First of all, you know I hated doing that. And second, you have no idea what it’s like,” Harry said, breaths coming in small pants as he locked his jaw in anger.

Louis’ shoulders relaxed, and he surprised Harry by saying, “You’re right.” There was a beat, and then, “I’ll never know what it’s like, Harry, but I do know what it’s like to love someone and watch them use every muscle in their body to breathe. I know you don’t usually let on to how poorly you’re feeling sometimes, but I could always tell. You’d push on until you crashed. It’s just the way you are, and nothing I did could stop you. But I could be there when you needed someone to walk you off stage, or hold you when the inhaler wasn’t enough. I used to be so afraid of that, and then it happened, and you were so sick for days after.”

“Lou-”

“I’ve thought about that night in Europe ever since you left, Harry,” Louis interrupted, sniffling as he tried to keep his tears at bay. “I worried it would happen again and I didn’t know who would be there for you. Would they know you were sick if you didn’t tell them? Would they know that you like cool washcloths on your head and neck, or that you hate masks because they make you feel like you’re suffocating?”

“I was awake that night, in the bunks.” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper.

“In Europe?”

“You said I scared the shit out of you. And that I needed to learn to rest. At the time I didn’t really think much of it; we still had months left on the tour. But after everything went down, I decided to rest. I thought I was spiting you, but I guess I was really just taking care of myself.” Harry coughed into his elbow again and took a slow breath. His voice started to get gravelly as he continued. “Honestly, it was the best advice I’ve ever been given. I’m not sure I’d be standing here if I hadn’t taken that break. I spent weeks making myself be bored. I lost everyone, Lou. Everyone. I had no one to call but my family, and they were thousands of miles away. How do you tell your mum that you’re not sure how to be your own person?”

Louis wanted to grab Harry’s hand, but when he saw that his eyes were welling up, he held back. 

“And then Columbia called and signed me, and they asked what I needed to write my album. I told them I needed space. Room to breathe. So I went to Jamaica to write for three months,” Harry explained, and hearing the words out loud made it all seem real for the first time. “I was so afraid to fuck up and waste everyone’s time, but I went anyway because I figured it’d be better than getting followed by paparazzi in LA or New York. No one knew I was there, so I was able to just live a somewhat normal life. We’d wake up in the late morning, make brunch, and write by the pool or on the beach. It took me some time, but I slowly learned how to speak for myself. I wrote some shitty songs and got constructive feedback, but it never felt judgmental. No one cared about my past. I felt like I was growing, and I hadn’t had that since the beginning. Things went so fast with 1D. We were always trying to make sure our next thing was bigger and better. Management was so concerned with money,” Harry said, shaking his head. “And I think that was slowly killing us. I know it was killing me on the inside. With the new album, I didn’t have management telling me what I couldn’t do. And it was an amazing experience. Honestly, I didn’t know that writing and recording could be like that. This album didn’t feel like that. I had so much going on in my head, and I was able to work through it, piece by piece, in Jamaica.”

Louis nodded, quiet as he took in what Harry had said.

“Not that it wasn’t great with you, Lou, I just…” Harry tried, his hand reaching out to grab Louis’.

“You don’t have to apologize for living a life without me, love.”

“It feels wrong that I got to enjoy all of that without you. Without Liam and Niall.”

“Wow. Okay, Harry, so I know that you’ve always been one big ball of anxiety,” Louis said softly. “And I know that you are constantly reflecting and trying to be a better person because you truly believe in kindness, but you’re allowed to enjoy things without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to work hard on your own merit and be proud of your accomplishments.”

Tears began streaming down Harry’s face, and Louis came close to wipe them away. “Then why does it all feel so wrong?” 

“We were groomed from a young age to always think about our band mates and our future as a band. Every move, picture, post, interview answer. It’s okay that you started your own career and found yourself without us. Without me. How could I possibly be mad at you for that, especially when I’m the one that asked for it?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He focused on the window, noticing that the snow flurry was still going strong outside, and thought about how he suddenly missed those three glorious months he’d spent in Jamaica. He’d loved that no one knew he was there. That he could be himself for the first time in a long time and not worry about anything. He’d stayed on his anxiety medication, the same low dose he’d been on for years, but in Jamaica, his anxiety had been different. The warm ocean water, salty air, and clear blue skies had been a welcome reprieve from the pain of what now felt like a past life.

Harry felt Louis’ hand squeeze his. “If I’ve learned anything in these last two years, it’s that none of that shit that management made us crazy with actually mattered. They had us so tightly wound and we couldn’t even breathe without getting a lecture. Paul stood up for us when he could, but he was part of the machine, too. It’s hard to admit that the adults we loved most while we were away from our parents were the ones who helped create the mess we’re in today. Sometimes, I wonder what things would have been like if we’d had the guts to really speak up for what we really believed in.”

“You always spoke up,” Harry said, and he had a feeling Louis wasn’t talking about the band anymore.

“Yeah, and then they painted me as a lunatic and…,” Louis started, stopping before he could finish, and Harry could see a flash of pain in Louis’ eyes. And then they tore us apart Harry wanted to finish, but it was too painful to say out loud. After all of this time, after everything they’d been put through, he could understand how saying that truth out loud was too much.

“If things were so great in Jamaica, with the album, and then the tour, why’s everything so fucked up now?” Louis asked.

“Jason.”

“The cactus.”

“Yeah. He’s making me play “Sweet Creature” in the parade tomorrow.”

“The song about me?” Louis asked, smiling.

“It’s not about you,” Harry said, blushing.

“Come on, Harry. You’re gonna tell me that “two hearts, one home?” is just a coincidence?”

“Irregardless of what you may think-” Harry started to joke, hoping Louis would let up about the song.

“Okay, now you’re just being mean.” Louis laughed, knowing that Harry knew that irregardless wasn’t a word; mostly, Harry knew how much it irked Louis. 

“So maybe there’s a song or two on my new album about you. But I’ll never tell you which ones,” Harry teased.

“Darling, we all know the whole album is about me,” Louis flirted, not realizing that Harry’s smile had fallen until he didn’t hear a response. He could see tears forming in Harry’s eyes, his hand reaching up to wipe away a few that had fallen. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Harry,” he apologized, feeling awful for having gone there. “That wasn’t right of me to say. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Lou,” he started to cry, breaking down into sobs again, and Louis had come over and wrapped his arms around his small frame. He rubbed Harry’s back and kissed him on his forehead, and when their eyes met, he realized that Harry wasn’t crying because Louis had hurt his feelings; Harry was crying because Louis had been right.

“Oh, love,” Louis said, his heart swelling with pain and gratitude all at the same time. “This is all my fault.”

“N-no,” Harry sobbed. “This isn’t our fault, Lou. Management did this to us. They scolded us and forced us to blame the fans for tearing us apart. They told us we were in a phase and that it would compromise the band. They made it impossible. Absolutely impossible for us. We always tried to change the lyrics on stage,” he chuckled, trying to calm down, “which would piss them right off, yet we did it anyway. Over and over. We even timed our posts. But now it’s like we’re not who we used to be. We’re like…”

“Two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty? Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat?” Louis sang, and Harry bawled harder, his hands clutching at Louis’ shirt, tears falling and soaking through the fabric. “Shh. I heard all of it, love. All of the words you couldn’t say to me in person,” he assured Harry.

“I had to get it all out, babe.” Harry’s voice cracked as he tried to choke back a sob. “I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

“I know, love. Let’s calm down, yeah? You’re starting to wheeze again.” Louis hated the pain in Harry’s eyes and his voice, and he could tell that Harry’s meds were starting to wear off. He grabbed a napkin from the table and handed it to Harry so that he could blow his nose. “Just stop you’re crying, it’s a sign of the times,” Louis sang.

“That song makes me cry when I perform it,” Harry confessed before blowing his nose. “Anything but that song right now. Please.”

“Alexa, play “Still the One” by Shania Twain,” Louis called out.

“Lou, no,” Harry sniffled, trying not to laugh.

“Playing “Still the One” by Shania Twain on Apple Music,” Alexa replied, soft drum beats and piano filling the kitchen as Louis pulled Harry off of the stool and wrapped his arms around his neck.

“Looks like we’ve made it,” he started singing, exaggerating his facial expressions. “Look how far we’ve come my baby / We might’ve took the long way / We knew we’d get there some day.”

“They said, I’ll bet, they’ll never make it,” Harry mouthed, his voice all but shot at this point. Louis was relieved to see Harry smiling and swaying with him to the music, his hands resting on Louis’ waist. “But just look at us holding on / We’re still together, still going strong.”

“You’re still the one,” they sang in unison, Harry straining his voice to match Louis’ act, which left him coughing and laughing. Louis was concerned at first, but soon Harry had him laughing, too, and together they rocked slowly back and forth, foreheads meeting as Harry got his breath back. 

“Ain’t nothing better,” Louis sang. “We beat the odds together / I’m glad we didn’t listen / Look at what we would be missing.” When the song finished, the two stood there in silence of the kitchen, each one afraid to let go of the other.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This story has taken off and I'm not sure what to think! Let me know what you like/don't like in the comments. :) A huge shout out to Casey who always gives the best feedback!!

To say that Jason was furious would be an understatement. It didn’t help that they were late to soundcheck for the parade and sitting in rush-hour traffic, or that it was 10 degrees with wind-chill outside. Harry had called Jason only thirty minutes before to let him know that he was okay and ready to talk, and Jason had insisted that they do it on the way to Herald Square. Initially, Harry had refused to go to the soundcheck altogether, but then Jason had provided an ultimatum, and Harry realized that he really had no choice but to show. With a second dose of Sudafed and paracetamol in his system, and his pockets full of tissues, Harry had begrudgingly obliged and waited in the lobby of Louis’ building for a black Ranger Rover to pick him up.

“Who the fuck is this?” Jason had asked, motioning toward Louis as they got into the SUV. “Is he why you ditched me today? I thought we were past the string of one-night stands.”

“This is why I can’t play nice anymore, Jason,” Harry explained, disgusted that he had to sit next to his asshat of a manager. “You asked me on the phone why I walked away this morning, and one of the reasons is because nothing respectful ever comes out of your mouth.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know who he fucking is,” Harry said, his Cheshire accent becoming thicker as his anger grew. “So you can stop being a total dick for one bloody minute.”

“You’re the one who embarrassed me today,” Jason said through gritted teeth, pointing at Harry. “In front of some of my best friends in the business. That interview was going to set you up for your acoustic show next week. We were going to hint at a possible relationship with Hayley Williams from Paramore.” Jason placed his hands on his face, as if he was getting a migraine from Harry’s antics, and shook his head. “I literally just scheduled pap photos so that we could get some pics of you and Hayley after your acoustic show.”

“But I never agreed to any of that!” Harry argued as the SUV pulled away from the curb into traffic. “You never ask me for my permission to do anything anymore. You just go and do it without any regard for how it might affect me or other people, and I’m done with doing things this way.”

“I didn’t ask because you would have said no, and as your manager I’m the one responsible for managing your career.”

“Of course I would have said no!” Harry yelled. “And my career doesn’t need anything right now because I’m sick and exhausted and I need a fucking break!” Harry rubbed the burning in his chest and prayed that he wouldn’t start coughing. That was all he needed after one of the shittiest days he’d had in a while. His main priority was to get through soundcheck and head back to his apartment for some well-deserved sleep.

Jason laughed, a grin appearing. “You’re too young to even know anything about your career, Harry. Keep babbling away and playing the spoiled rock star trope. See where that leads you.”

“Hey,” Louis warned, leaning forward so that he could get a good look at Jason. “Harry’s the complete opposite of that and you know it!”

“Aw, is your boyfriend speaking for you now? That’s cute,” Jason taunted, and Harry’s lungs tightened in revulsion.

“You’re a real ray of sunshine,” Louis threw back at Jason. “Is this how you talk to all of your clients?” 

At that, Jason broke into hysterical laughter. “Clients? Honey, I’ve been in this business for over twenty years. Harry thinks he’s the boss, but we all know the truth: The Harry Styles show couldn’t possibly run without me, as evidenced by his little act this morning.”

“Harry, you don’t have to take this,” Louis stated, ready and willing to have the driver pull over.

“You always say shit like that to make me feel small,” Harry explained, voice straining as his airways started to spasm, “but you know none of it’s true. You’re a fucking liar! I should have stuck with Jeffrey. He wouldn’t ever talk to me like this!” He coughed into his elbow, unable to quell the tickle in his throat any longer, which opened the gateway for a string of coughs.

“Maybe if you had listened to my advice and had that herbal tea that I recommended for your voice-”

“It wasn’t an herbal tea,” Harry said once he’d been able to stop the coughs, keeping his voice low and timing his breaths so that he didn’t explode into another coughing fit. “You know I don’t use drugs.”

Jason grinned again. “I always pegged you as someone who would do anything to get ahead, that eventually I’d be able to crack you, but now I’m really not so sure.”

“Harry’s one of the most professional people you will ever meet in this business! Give him some respect, man!” Louis shouted. Jason rolled his eyes, nasty grin still wide on his face. “You’re a royal prick, you know that?”

“You’re going to talk to me about the definition of what a prick is?” Jason said, breaking into laughter. “After you broke up your one claim to fame and fucked all of your best friends over?” He clapped his hands together. “Oh, this is really getting good! Please do tell me more!”

Harry wheezed loudly, placing a hand on his chest as his eyes met Louis’. The argument, and his damned cold, had his head spinning and his lungs closing.

“You’ve gotten yourself all worked up, love,” Louis explained calmly, unbuttoning the top of Harry’s wool coat and loosening his scarf. “Slow, deep breaths, yeah?”

Harry nodded, his wheezing filling the vehicle as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. 

“Harry?” Jason asked, and Harry could hear the tiniest sliver of concern in his voice.

“Ignore him, Harry,” Louis instructed. “He’s pretending to be worried; he only cares about his paycheck.”

“I think I left it,” Harry whispered, eyes opening wide in realization as he turned his pockets inside out.

Jason sighed in anger. “What now?”

“Shit. I thought you’d grabbed it,” Louis said, ignoring Jason’s confusion. 

Harry could feel his lungs itching to cough again, and before he could even take a fully slow breath in, it hitched and caught in his throat, leading to choking, honking coughs that Harry couldn’t control no matter how hard he tried.

“You’ve got to sit up,” Louis coached, and Harry hadn’t realized that his first instinct had been to double-over. He could feel Louis’ arms around him as he fought for control over his breathing and coughing, and he closed his eyes in fear and embarrassment, praying it would calm down on its own.

“How far is Tribeca from here?” Louis asked the driver.

“We’re not going to Tribeca!” Jason yelled over the driver’s response. “They’ve already had to reschedule soundcheck twice because of Harry today!”

“He’s having an asthma attack,” Louis said, startling Jason.

“Harry doesn’t-”

“Can you take us to Tribeca?” Louis asked the driver, who nodded in response, before turning to Jason. “Harry’s been asthmatic since he was a baby. Maybe if you’d spent five fucking minutes getting to know him instead of berating him for stupid shit you’d have noticed, and maybe you’d have figured out why he doesn’t like to tell people.”

For the first time all night, Jason was silent. All that filled the car for the ten-minute drive was Harry’s wheezing and coughing, and Louis’ whispering encouragement in his ear. Stress had always been a trigger for Harry, but Louis knew that there was much more behind the scene that contributed to Harry’s flares. It was like a cycle: When work demands and stress levels increased, Harry would experience a sleep deficit, which would make him more prone to colds or his allergies, which ended up affecting his breathing, which then resulted in more stress, since he had always tried to hide it until the last possible second. Louis suddenly wished that it was Paul in Jason’s seat. In retrospect, it seemed that Paul, despite his faults, was the one adult that was always genuinely looking out for them. He’d been there father figure on the road, and Louis had to admit that Paul had always taken amazing care of Harry when he’d become ill.

“Can you walk, baby?” Louis whispered softly once the SUV had arrived in front of Harry’s building.

“I hate being so weak,” Harry answered, shaking his head.

“You’re not weak, Harry. It’s not your fault that your lungs suck right now,” Louis assured him, helping Harry out and onto his back for a piggy-back ride.

“Yes, it is, Lou,” Harry said, Louis feeling Harry’s warm tears on his neck. “I’m making everything worse.”

“None of this is your fault, okay love?” Louis reassured him, Harry closing his eyes to stop the tears and nodding slowly against Louis’ neck.

“You,” Louis said, turning around to face Jason, who was following them, “are not coming inside.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Jason stated. “If we have any chance of making soundcheck-”

“You’re still fucking worried about soundcheck? For fucking real?” Louis said incredulously, an “I don’t believe this guy” laugh escaping his lips. He shook his head and walked away to bring Harry inside.

“Louis,” Jason started, following them to the elevator.

“Do you hear him right now?” Louis asked Jason, Harry’s breathing straining painfully with every wheeze. Louis’ heart was breaking knowing that Harry was fighting so hard against his own body. “He can’t breathe. He needs medicine and rest, and I know him well enough to know he’s been lying and saying he’s fine when he’s not. Which is why he kept showing up for you even though he knew he’d pay for it later.”

“He never told me,” Jason said.

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Louis responded.

The elevator arrived, and the three went in, Jason pressing the button for the 16th floor.

Louis adjusted Harry on his back, his hands coming up to squeeze Harry’s, which were wrapped around his shoulders. “Not that you’ve earned any kind of explanation, Jason,” Louis began, “but it takes a lot for Harry to admit when he needs a break. You completely ignored him and then guilted him into-”

“Guilted is a strong word,” Jason responded.

“If you’re going to keep being cheeky with me, you can leave. Harry doesn’t need your negativity right now, and I sure as hell refuse to put up with it.”

Jason adjusted his footing as the elevator stopped. “I told you I wasn’t leaving.”

“You better keep your mouth closed or I’m calling down to security to have you removed, do you understand?”

Louis half-expected Jason to throw a retort at him, but instead he just nodded, leading Louis and Harry into the hallway and toward Harry’s apartment. Jason unlocked the door and held it open so that they could enter. 

Louis gently guided Harry from his back to the couch and sat beside him. Harry’s skin had gone stark white, his cheeks a bright red from coughing. Feeling Harry’s forehead, he noted how warm it was and frowned. Harry eyes were closed tightly in concentration, his lips separated slightly as he worked to breathe.

“Can you help him get his coat off while I go get his nebulizer together?” Louis asked Jason, who nodded in reply and began to get Harry more comfortable.

“Lou?” Harry asked weakly when he realized Louis wasn’t nearby.

“I’m here, love,” Louis yelled across the apartment, and Jason was shocked that Louis had heard Harry from so far away. “I’ll be right there, okay? Jason, can you get him a glass of water?”

Jason got up to fill a glass with cool water from the refrigerator door and brought it back to Harry.

“Harry, I didn’t realize,” Jason was saying as he helped Harry take small sips, but all Harry could do was focus on one breath at a time. Despite the water, which felt cool on his sore, dry throat, he felt like he was drowning, pinpricks of light appearing as he slowly opened his eyes.

“M’dizzy,” he said, starting to cough again, the choking, honking coughs from the car returning. He sat up and propped his elbows on his knees, hands clasped at his forehead as he tried to slow his breathing and coughing.

“No no no!” Louis yelled from the hallway as Harry began to dry heave between coughs, the water he’d just swallowed threatening to come up. Jason jumped back as Harry continued to cough and heave, Louis dropping everything in his hands on the adjoining couch. On the coffee table was an empty decorative glass bowl, and Louis grabbed it, guiding Harry’s head so that he could heave into it. “Jason, a little help here,” Louis begged, and Jason came to sit and take over holding the bowl.

“lt’s happening again,” Harry mumbled miserably before going into another round of wheezing, coughing, and heaving.

“What’s happening again?” Jason asked.

“The attack,” Louis explained, plugging Harry’s nebulizer into a floor outlet. “His last bad attack like this was after a 1D concert in Europe.”

Harry shook his head ‘no’ before coughing again, his hand balling into a fist as he pushed it against his chest. “Jamaica,” he whispered between coughs, and Louis felt his heart sink. “Boston. Chicago. Denver.”

“How long has this been going on?” Jason asked, and Harry held a hand up. “Five weeks?”

“Months,” he whispered between coughs. “On and off.”

“Harry,” Jason responded, and Louis could hear true concern in his voice for the first time, since, well, ever. “You got this sick on tour and you didn’t say anything?”

Harry just looked away, not wanting to explain. With the pressure Jason had kept on him, he hadn’t had any incentive to open his mouth. So he’d brushed off his coughing as a summer cold or high altitude until he was alone in his hotel room. He’d gotten so close to calling Louis on those nights, but didn’t want to worry him. Harry was fine with everyone thinking things were peachy keen even when they weren’t.

Jason thought for a moment and then looked directly at Harry. “Is this why you needed oxygen in Denver?” An image of Harry gasping for air after his show at the Pepsi Center in his elaborate stage clothes flashed in his memory. There hadn’t been any wheezing, just an itch-like cough, as if Harry’s throat wouldn’t let him stop. He’d heard that cough before, had seen it in videos of Harry’s One Direction performances, but had always chalked it up to the stage fog and jet lag. 

“He’s always has a hard time at high altitudes,” Louis explained, breaking open a nebule of medicine. “Smoke effects are the worst, though.”

“I know I’m hard on you, Harry, but you don’t keep things like this from people. What if something had happened?”

“He kept it from me, too,” Louis explained as he turned on the machine and helped Harry guide the misting mouthpiece to his lips. “Paul and I nearly had a cow when we found out,” he explained as he sat beside Harry and helped him lay against the couch. “That was, what, our Up All Night tour? Your mom gave him a real earful after he called her all panicked, Harry. You remember that?” Louis laughed playfully, trying to lighten the tone. 

“Eleanor,” Harry said, frowning as he pushed the mouthpiece back in, and Louis immediately felt like an asshole for having brought that first attack up. The Eleanor period, 2012 specifically, had been a weird time. Harry and Louis hadn’t fought at first, but soon, they were at the point where they’d be on top of each other in interviews and onstage one day, the next refusing to even be in the same vehicle on the way to venues. Louis knew he’d cut Harry pretty deeply during that time, maybe more so than all of the other Eleanor phases, and he hated that it had been because management was continually warning them to “tone it the fuck down.” But how could they when they’d never felt like that about anyone else? Eleanor had been a PRomance and it had killed Louis to even entertain the idea of being around her at first, but then Simon had warned him that he could lose everything, could lose Harry, if they kept acting all lovey-dovey. And while that had been a complete and total lie, it had felt so real and scary at the moment. That, and he had started to get close with Eleanor as Harry began to drift away ever so slightly.

Harry had started coughing during an early dinner before their first Glasgow show, downing cup after cup of water. Louis had come over and put his hand on Harry’s back to ask what was wrong, but he’d flinched and excused himself quickly to use the restroom. Harry and Louis weren’t exactly on the best terms at the time, but Louis had had a bad feeling, which is why when he found Harry in the bathroom hunched over the sink with one hand in a fist against his sternum, his face twisted in anguish as he wheezed and coughed uncontrollably, his first instinct had been to scream into the hallway for Paul.

“Maybe he’s having a panic attack?” Liam had asked, but Louis knew that couldn’t be right. He’d been there for Harry’s panic attacks, and Louis had never heard him sound so...so sick. Paul was on the phone with Anne, kneeling beside Harry who sat with his back against the cool tile of the hallway, legs splayed out before him as he cried and fought the medic who was trying to get some sort of misting oxygen mask contraption over his head. In that instant, Louis’ heart had been shattered, and he hadn’t been able to keep himself away from Harry. Harry, who he loved more than life itself, who couldn’t breathe and needed someone who wasn’t afraid to touch him even though he looked ready to break into pieces, too.

“Baby,” he’d whispered as he’d kneeled on the other side of his best friend, taking his hand in his. “You’ve gotta listen to the medics. Your mom told Paul you’re having an asthma attack.”

Harry had squeezed his hand as tears streamed down his face and lifted his other hand with some kind of device clipped to his index finger, cupping it to mimic a mask over his face before putting his hand around his throat as if he was choking. “No mask,” Harry had mouthed. Before Louis could form words, the medic had somehow figured out what Harry was saying and had switched over to a misting mouthpiece, which Harry took without any resistance. Louis had been impressed with how quickly the medicine had cleared up his breathing, and he realized that Harry, though exhausted from having to work so hard to breathe, was shaking slightly.

“It’s the medicine,” he heard Harry whisper. “It makes me shake. It’ll go away soon.”

“Your mom says you haven’t had an attack in years,” Paul explained. “Must be all of the dust in these old venues.” But Louis had had a feeling that there was more to it than that. “She was ready to bite my head off, Styles. Don’t scare me like that again!” The guys, Harry included, had all laughed, but even though Louis had sat and stayed with Harry until the medics cleared him to perform, Harry had been different after. Eleanor, it seemed, had made a permanent mark on their relationship, one that couldn’t be undone.

“Can I put the bowl down now?” Jason asked, oblivious to the sudden change between Louis and harry, and Harry nodded, hopeful that the dry heaving was done with.

“S’an antique,” Harry said, the coughs returning as they usually did once the medicine started opening his airways.

“Not anymore it’s not,” Jason joked, bringing the bowl into the kitchen. 

“I’m thinking we should call a doctor,” Louis added, pushing Harry’s hair out of his face again once he was done coughing, and to his surprise, and delight, Harry didn’t recoil. 

“No,” Harry moaned.

“You sound awful, baby,” Louis said, getting up to wet a washcloth in the kitchen. “Even with the treatment. If this has been going on for months, you should get checked out.”

“M’fine,” Harry argued, even though he hadn’t quite convinced himself that was true.

“If you were fine we’d be at soundcheck, but alas, here we are,” Jason added, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call Dr. Roberts and see if he can make a house call.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” Louis agreed as Jason left the room to go make the call. “What can I do to cheer you up?” he asked, wiping Harry’s face and neck down with the hope that it would lessen the heat and redness in Harry’s cheeks.

“Gemma.”

“It’s like 3 in the morning there, love.”

“The Notebook?”

“Only if you promise not to say any of Rachel McAdams’ lines. You need to take your medicine.”

“Treat you like a gentleman?” Harry joked, referencing “Medicine,” cracking himself up, and pushing himself into another coughing fit.

“Well, I’m glad you can breathe a little better and are acting like yourself again, but I think rest is best right now, love,” Louis advised, smiling as he pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and covered Harry’s legs with it. Instead of replying with words, Harry nuzzled into Louis’ neck, closing his eyes and focusing intently on slow, deep breaths of the medicine that he both hated and loved at the same time. “God, I missed this,” Louis whispered, letting his head fall to meet Harry’s. “I can’t believe I fucked everything up for us.”

Harry opened his eyes and reached his free hand out, rubbing his thumb against Louis’ arm, his hand shaking from the medicine.

“It’s breaking my heart to see you like this, H,” Louis admitted, his eyes welling up with tears. “To see us like this.”

Harry went to pull the nebulizer from his mouth and speak, but Louis stopped him.

“Love, if you start coughing again, I’m going to crumble completely, so please, please, please just rest for me. Can you do that?”

Harry nodded, too tired in the moment to argue. That, and he could see that Louis’ facial muscles were twitching, ready to let the tears and sadness out at any moment. “I know we’ve done a good bit of crying today,” Louis said, sniffling. “And I want to stop, but then...I keep thinking back...and it’s all so clear now. Too clear. Back then, it was all so messy and confusing. You mentioned Eleanor before and I remembered that argument we had over breakfast before the Sony interview in Indonesia. I remember, now. I must have blocked it out. There’s just so much that we went through, you know? I remember we fought that morning about Eleanor, and then about Taylor. You told me that if I wasn’t going to stop with Eleanor, that two could play that game. I knew I was hurting you, but management was all over us about the flirting and the love bites and the Halloween fiasco. I guess I thought I’d always have you for myself, no matter what, and that was so fucking stupid and selfish of me.” Louis’ voice cracked. “You made sure they put you in the back of the interview, as far away from me as possible, and I started and was just stumbling over my words until I couldn’t get any more words out, so the guys took over. It was so hard and I knew I deserved it then, but I haven’t forgotten how that felt because that’s honestly how I’ve been feeling ever since.”

A familiar jingle filled the air from Harry's phone, followed by “Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long...” by the Beach Boys, Harry smiling behind the mouthpiece of the nebulizer.

“We loved that one, didn’t we,” Louis smiled, reminiscing. “We thought it’d be so much easier when we were older.” 

“Won’t stop ‘till we surrender,” Harry played next on his phone, knowing Louis would get the reference to his tattoo.

“Didn’t we do that when we quit, though? Wait, is that a ringtone? You have that one line from The Temper Trap as a ringtone? For real, Harry?” Louis pushed a tear away from his eye.

“Here and now,” Luther Vandross sang from Harry’s phone. “I promise to love you faithfully.”

Louis laughed, sniffling back his tears, happiness flooding his system.

“I’ve got my mind set on you,” George Harrison sang, and Louis had to bite his lip to keep the tears from starting up again. Harry had kept all of their songs. In a playlist. On his phone.

“If I could fly, I’d be coming right back home to you,” Harry’s voice sang from his phone. "I think I might give up everything, just ask me to,” He let the song continue until Louis’ part.

“I’ve got scars, even though they can’t always be seen,” Louis sang softly, squeezing Harry’s hand. “Pain gets hard, but now you’re here and I don’t feel a thing…”

Harry’s nebulizer sputtered, signaling that it was done. “I love that song,” Harry said, voice breathy and quiet as Louis reached to turn the machine off.

“It’s one of my favorites,” Louis responded. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Like I’m breathing through a straw,” Harry admitted.

Jason entered the room, phone still in his hand. “Dr. Roberts said he can be here in a half hour. I handled the soundcheck situation, but that still leaves us with the issue of tomorrow.”

Louis thought for a moment before smiling and saying, “I think I have an idea.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to fiddle with dates and details. Forgive me. Also, please let me know what you think and what you'd like to see!! Thank you for reading!

Louis rubbed his eyes, careful not mess up the bit of stage makeup that had been forced on him that morning, and blinked. Though the windshield of the black Ram pick-up truck they were in, he could see a mix of floats, balloons, and people lining the streets ahead of them. The truck creeped slowly as it pulled an elaborate float behind them, kickoff having started nearly 40 minutes earlier.

They’d had to be up at 6 and uptown by 7:30 to check-in. Harry, bundled in his down jacket, a hat, and donning a fleece blanket, had crawled into the middle back seat of the truck and promptly passed out. “You could literally fall asleep anywhere,” Louis joked when Harry, who’d snuggled against him, woke up. “Nice nap? How’re you feeling, baby?”

“Lou, you don’t have to do this,” Harry said, voice gravelly as he ignored Louis’ questions. There were dark bags under his eyes and his cheeks were a bright crimson. Louis could hear how difficult it was for him to breathe despite his breathing treatment that morning, and he worried that they wouldn’t be back in time for his next scheduled treatment.

“You have bronchitis, Harry. I’m not letting you go out in that cold to perform,” Louis stated. “You shouldn’t even be in this truck right now.” Dr. Roberts had come over the night before to check Harry over and had insisted that he get a chest x-ray immediately after he saw that his oxygen level was lower than usual.

“I’m about ready to admit you, to be honest,” Dr. Roberts had said at the 24-hour urgent care after he’d looked at the x-rays. “Your lungs are inflamed and hyperinflated, which means they’ve been irritated for a while now. How long did you say the attacks were going on?” Harry had argued against the doctor’s advice, looking to Louis to support him, but Louis wasn’t sure what to say. Thankfully, the doctor had added, “With the way the flu’s been going around, though, I’d rather you stay home and recover. No need to increase your exposure, especially with your lungs in the condition they’re in.”

Despite the truck being so warm that Louis had rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and the flannel beneath it, Harry pulled the fleece blanket wrapped around his shoulders even tighter. He coughed into his elbow and took a slow, deep breath to keep more from coming. “It’s only four more hours. I’ll be okay,” Harry explained. “I didn’t want to be home alone, anyway.” Louis couldn’t argue with that; there was no one who would be able to stay with Harry, since Jason needed to be present to coordinate all of the changes in the details now that Harry wasn’t preforming.

“When this is over, we’re going straight home and you are to rest until further notice,” Jason added, typing furiously into his phone. Harry laughed inwardly at how frazzled and changed Jason was by the last 24 hours, afraid to let out a real laugh for fear of starting a coughing fit. Jason had had no choice but to let Harry rest after Dr. Roberts had given him a strong lecture last night about listening to Harry, especially now that he’d been honest about his asthma and all of the attacks he’d had on tour. “I can’t believe you talked me into letting Louis perform in your place and that I let you stay in the truck while he’s out there. What if someone sees you like this?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Harry said, thinking back to how the paparazzi had captured him numerous times while ill, including puking off of the side of an LA highway after he’d hiked Runyon Canyon.

“Windows are tinted,” Tony, the driver, commented, and Harry thought there was something he kind of liked about the guy after he’d introduced himself as their driver earlier this morning. He was tall and built, bald and in his 50s, wearing a dark suit and red tie. He was cautious and professional, explaining how the morning would go and updating them every half hour before the truck had even started moving in the parade line.

Jason scowled. “Thank you, Tony. I was trying to make a point-”

“Don’t be rude, Jason,” Harry warned. “We talked about your comments. I’m sure there’s a billion other places Tony would rather be today, so let’s be nice, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason offered, looking down at his phone. Harry nudged him, and Jason sighed, putting his phone down. “I’m sincerely sorry, Tony.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Harry said, “for being here today and putting up with Jason.”

“Just doing my job. Also, it was nice of you guys to get me coffee this morning, and most people I drive barely say two words to me, so thank you. You’re up in another 10,” Tony said, tapping his earpiece. “About a block away I’ll stop. The crew outside will set up your in-ears with a monitor pack and give you a mic. It’s cold out there, so bundle up.”

“You’re the best,” Louis said, unrolling his sleeves and adjusting his collar so that he could put his coat on. “Haven’t performed in years,” he added, and Harry could see that the smile on his face had weakened, his excitement mixed with nerves.

Tony stopped the car and Louis slipped his coat on.

“You’re up,” Tony signaled.

“You’ll be great, Lou,” Harry said, kissing him before he opened the door and jumped out into the cold.

*

“Harry,” Zayn had said to Louis, nudging him in the middle of Liam’s part in “I Want” at their New York concert at Madison Square Garden and nodding toward Harry. It was May of 2012 and they’d been going non-stop from Europe, to Australia to the US. Louis had glanced over at Harry, who was playing air guitar and bopping to the music like usual, but he could see on his face that something was wrong. His brow was furrowed and his lips were parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his white Henley. In the lights, Louis could see that his cheeks were bright red. “He asked Paul for his inhaler again,” Zayn had said into Louis’ ear.

“For real?”

“Third time he’s done the signal.”

Louis’ heart sunk. How had he not noticed? He’d seen Harry take his inhaler after “C’mon, C’mon,” just before they’d started “Little Things,” but he couldn’t recall seeing him looking for Paul off stage or heard him struggling during any of his singing parts. He’d battled a cold in the last few weeks after that first, initial asthma attack, and had gone to the doctor a few days before to come off of vocal rest, but he’d been doing better. Earlier that day, Harry had had quite the breakdown, and he marveled at how well Harry was able to hide what was really going on as he made his way across the stage toward him.

“You okay?” he’d asked, knowing he’d get shit from management later. “You never take your inhaler on stage.”

Harry hadn’t answered him, just shrugged him off and took a long drink from his water bottle.

“Harry,” Louis had called out, but Harry had already started walking across the stage to start the next song.

By the time the show was over, Louis was stuck between concern and hurt; Harry had never walked away from him like that, especially not on stage, but he was also worried for the same reason: Something was definitely wrong. He watched as Harry darted around the dressing room to pack his bag, his wheezing enough to set Louis’ heart on fire.

“You need medicine, love?” Louis had asked, a hand resting on Harry’s shoulder to try and slow him down. Harry had shrugged Louis’ hand away and continued his packing.

“Harry,” Zayn had started, slightly annoyed by the way Harry had treated Louis both on stage and in the dressing room. “Harry!”

“What’s your deal, mate?” Niall had asked. “We’re right worried about you. You sound awful.”

Liam jumped in with “Harry, what’s going on? This isn’t like you at all.”

Harry had stopped with his bag open in his hands, his back to the guys as his chin fell against his chest and he let out a heavy sob.

“Here we go,” Zayn had said, rolling his eyes as Louis went over to try and get a hold of Harry.

“No!” Harry had yelled, his voice straining as he pulled away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Hey,” Louis said, voice softer as he tried to calm Harry down. “We can’t do this here, love. There are cameras and lots of people waiting outside of that door. The after party, remember?”

“I just…want to go home,” Harry sobbed, dropping his bag and lowering himself to the floor. “I want to go home!” he yelled, voice cracking as he broke completely. Louis cautiously inched closer to Harry, afraid to set him off further.

“Go get Paul,” Niall whispered to Liam, who raced from the room, before turning toward Louis and Harry. “Did the doctor give a steroid shot the other day, H?”

Harry nodded from the floor, his hands covering his face as he wheezed and sobbed. He was more upset than anything else, the wheezing only growing worse because he’d started crying. It felt like he was always crying lately, the doom and gloom that usually stayed in the distance looming over him like a heavy blanket. He’d been happy to come off of vocal rest, but panicked when he was told he’d need a shot and to get blood taken. Paul had held him down and promised him ice cream, but all that had done was make Harry feel like a child. The next day, he’d teared up over missing out on the last chocolate croissant at breakfast, and then again during sound check when he’d slipped going down the ramp and scraped his hand up pretty good. He’d teared up at dinner for no identifiable reason, and then again on their way back to the hotel after the concert. And then he’d had the mother of all meltdowns in the car that morning after he’d been scolded for scowling at the mention of Eleanor during their first interview of the day, which had led to another complete meltdown over his first meltdown, carrying on about how he wanted to be alone and that no one could touch him. That had earned him an Ativan and three hours with Paul in his hotel room until he could calm himself down, where he’d finally, somehow, passed out and briefly escaped the crippling anxiety that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried.

“It’s the damn steroids,” Niall said, sighing. “They’re helping him breathe, but they’re messing with his head. They used to make me crazy when I was little.”

“Not really doing a good job of helping him breathe,” Zayn joked, but no one acknowledged it.

“I’ve dreamt about performing at MSG…since I was a kid,” Harry said between wheezes, voice weak. “I was horrible. Everyone could tell I wasn’t feeling great. I didn’t smile enough a-and messed up my part in “Little Things” because of my stupid medicine.” He took a choppy breath. “It always changes my voice. I can do better,” he berated himself, sobbing. “Management’s going to be pissed... They’re going to think I did it on purpose… They’re going to-”

“Love, you were not horrible!” Louis assured him. “And fuck them. What they think doesn’t matter. You were amazing, just like you always are. I didn’t even notice you were sick. You always hide it so well, Harry.”

“You’re just saying that,” he said, sniffling, trying not to sob.

“You know I wouldn’t, Harry. I’m always honest with you. Always.”

Harry looked up at him, eyes red and jaw clenched as he thought about Louis’ comment that had produced his reaction in the interview. “What do I do look forward to on my days off? Seeing my baby, Eleanor. Definitely.” Harry had been reminded of all of the nights Louis had promised he’d be there, only to go off on a date with Eleanor or some other girl. He hated that Louis had seemed so happy when he’d said it, and he hated what management was doing to them with every fiber of his being. As people. As friends. As a couple. “Fuck off, Lou! You know that’s not true!”

“Baby-”

Harry interrupted with “You don’t get to call me that anymore! Not if you’re going to be off gallivanting with girl after girl every night!” Louis could feel his lip trembling and eyes stinging with tears. He loved Harry more than anything, but boy did his words cut sometimes. It didn’t help that he was speaking the truth, and it didn’t help that they both knew it wasn’t the full truth. Louis was forced to go on those dates and say those things in interviews. Harry knew this, as did Louis, and usually he understood that all of this--the singing, the traveling, the friendships--could all be ripped apart at the snap of Simon’s fingers.

Niall jumped in with “You’ve gotta lower your voice, Harry. Someone is going to-”

“I don’t care!” he screamed. “I don’t fucking care anymore! About any of this! None of this is normal! I’m tired and feel like crap and I just want…to go...home!” Harry hugged his knees and continued to sob. Louis was afraid to get any closer, and the Niall and Zayn just looked at each other, unsure of what to do.

Paul, along with a few others from management, came into the room as Harry was rocking from his place on the floor yelling, “I want to go home! I want to…go home!” Without even asking, Paul had kneeled down and scooped Harry into his arms, the boy fighting him with violent kicks and screams.

“Hey,” Paul whispered, tightening his grip on Harry. “Breathe, Harry.”

Harry just sobbed, his legs the only thing free enough to slightly escape Paul’s grip. “Let me go! I just wanna go home! Let me go home! Let me go!”

“I know you do,” he said, voice barely audible. “I know.” After a few tense moments of Paul holding Harry tight, he stopped kicking and turned into Paul’s chest to cry, wheezes turning high pitched as he fought to get his breath back.

“You’re okay, kid,” Paul comforted, still holding Harry tightly. “Just another panic attack. We all get them sometimes.”

“Three times in one day?” Zayn commented, and Harry cringed at the words.

“You’re one to talk,” Louis countered, glaring daggers at Zayn. “You’ve had your bad days, too, so don’t be knocking Harry when he’s already down.”

“I can’t breathe,” Harry answered, and Paul released his grip on him a bit, sitting him up and rubbing his back. “I really can’t breathe,” he repeated, panicked.

“You maxed out on your inhaler during the show, Harry. You took, what, eight puffs? You’re shaking like a leaf. I think your asthma will calm down once we get your anxiety under control.”

Harry knew Paul was right, but his mind and emotions were racing, and his lungs were freaking out regardless, so it all just felt like one giant asthma attack from hell. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t coughing like usual, and the thought that maybe this was more anxiety than anything else made him start to cry again, his sobs coming out as long wheezes.

“Liam, can you start the shower in the bathroom? Put it on as hot as you can,” Paul had advised, and Liam had sauntered over to follow his directions. “Up we go,” Paul said, lifting Harry from the ground as if he was light as a feather. “The steam will open you up.”

“What should I tell everyone?” someone from management, Harry couldn’t make out who, was asking.

“Tell them he’s back on vocal rest,” Paul directed, adjusting Harry in his arms. “You boys go, I’ll calm him down and get him comfortable at the hotel.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Louis affirmed, and Paul frowned, knowing that with such a big party planned that would be raking in record amounts of earnings, there’d be no way he’d win the battle with Modest.

“Lou, you know-”

“I know and I don’t fucking care, Paul,” he argued, his accent growing stronger. “Harry is the closest thing I have to family on the road and I’m not letting him out of my sight.” He sniffled and worked hard to keep his face composed; if he lost it now, he’d never be able to redeem himself or be taken seriously by management. Liam returned, and Louis could hear the shower going strong in the next room.

“Look at ‘im.” Louis gestured toward Harry, and even Paul had to agree that Harry, curled in his arms gasping and shaking, covered in sweat with his face red and swollen and hair matted every which way, looked absolutely awful. “He needs me! Guys? Help me, please?” Louis asked, looking over at his band mates for help. Each one of them refused to look him in the eye; they were afraid of management, too, and Harry’s scolding and meltdown earlier had scared them into silence. Paul gave Louis one last sorry look as he took Harry into the steamy bathroom and closed the door behind him.

“Let’s go,” management was saying, but Louis pulled away from their grip.

“I’m fucking sick of this shit!” he’d yelled, tears finally rolling down his cheeks. “If this was your wife, or your child, you’d fight someone telling you that you can’t be with them when they need you!”

“The photographer-”

“Do I look like I can be in a fucking picture right now?!” Louis screamed, on the verge of sobbing himself.

Zayn cut in. “Lou, we should-”

“Fuck you, Zayn!” Louis yelled, pointing a finger. “Harry’s our family, and fuck it all if I’m going to get some stupid photographs taken while he’s gasping like a fish out of water. You know he’s not well right now. Fuck you,” he yelled again at Zayn before turning to Liam and Niall. “And fuck both of you for not sticking up for Harry, either!” before running toward the bathroom door and letting himself inside.

“I’m here, baby,” Lou had cooed, kneeling beside Harry on the floor opposite of Paul and brushing his hair out of his face.

“Lou,” he whimpered, his breathing and wheezing erratic, tears still falling.

“I know. I know you didn’t mean what you said. I know you feel like crap. I know, baby.” Louis was sniffling, willing his own tears to stop.

“The party.”

“Fuck the party. They don’t need us. We don’t owe them anything,” he explained softly, taking Harry’s hand in his. “We don’t have to play by their rules. Not when you’re sick.”

Harry rubbed his chest and let the back of his head meet the wall. “I can’t breathe, Lou.”

“I know, love. The steam’s supposed to help.”

Harry sniffled, trying not to sob again. “W-wanna go home.”

“We will. Just not yet, okay? And you love New York. You said that after Amsterdam, it’s your second favorite. I promised you we’d get an apartment, remember?” Louis smiled to try and get Harry to. “That we’d live here for real one day. Just like you wanted.”

“It’s too much,” Harry said, face twisting in pain as he pressed his hand to his chest.

Louis pulled his hand from Harry’s and put it on his shoulder. “Is it your chest?”

“The pressure,” Harry cried, tears streaming down his face.

“Harry, does your chest hurt? Are you having chest pains?” Paul asked, suddenly on alert.

“N-no,” he continued. “No. I just can’t take the pressure anymore. I can’t be…myself. I’m not me. We’re not us. All of the rules. They’re like an elephant sitting on my chest. I don’t think I can do it anymore… It’s too much…”

“We can have a meeting about “the rules.” I’ll make sure it happens,” Paul insisted, and Louis gave him a look. “For real this time,” he insisted.

“Nothing’s gonna change, Paul. Not if Simon has his way. If anything, he’ll make things crazier. You know how he is.”

“With or without the rules, I’m still a burden. A weak, pathetic burden,” Harry mumbled, his face crumpling before he let out a sob, his hands shaking.

“Because you’ve been sick on tour? Harry, everyone has gotten sick,” Paul explained.

“Not like me.” He shook his head. “I’m different. Everyone’s always watching me. Asking me if I’m okay. The panic attacks. The pills. The inhalers. The breathing treatments. The steroids. Coughing in interviews and on stage. It’s not normal. _I’m_ not normal.”

“You scared us pretty good with that first attack, Harry, and it’s hard to tell when you’re not feeling well because you don’t say anything. We check on you because we care. And also because you tend to crash when you don’t slow down. You’ve been pretty sick this tour, but you’re not the only one. Zayn had that food poisoning a few weeks ago, Liam and Lou got the same cold you had, and Niall has asthma, too,” Paul added.

“Niall doesn’t needed medicine constantly. I know what everyone thinks. I know they think I love the attention, but I hate it. I just want to be like everyone else. I want to get on stage… and do what I love to do… without the meds… without you needing to be… just off stage…,” Harry said, struggling to calm his breathing down.

“Needing medicine to help you breathe doesn’t make you a burden, Harry,” Louis explained, pulling him into his arms and against his chest. “Shhh. Slow, deep breaths, baby. There you go,” he soothed, Harry wrapping his arms around Louis’ middle as he relaxed. “You have a burden, Harry, but you’re not the burden. You could never be a burden to us, love. And we’re here to help you through it. All of us.”

“Then why did Zayn say, ‘Here we go again?’” he cried.

Paul chuckled. “Because he’s Zayn, and because you were being a bit of an ass earlier.”

“The steroids,” he said, burying his head in Louis’ chest.

Louis gently pulled Harry’s chin up. “Again, not you. You have a burden, baby, and it’s hard. You battle so damn hard. Every single day. I mean,” he laughed softly, wiping the tears from his eyes. “You can barely breathe sometimes yet you go out there and sing and jump around and make so many people so happy. They have no idea how sick you are sometimes, Harry. I don’t know how you push through it.”

“I need it to go away,” Harry said, sniffling. “I need it to stop taking control of my life. It’s just constant right now and I hate it. All of it. I can’t calm myself down. I can’t control my thoughts or emotions and I can’t… I can’t… breathe,” he said, sighing in frustration.

“Your wheezing is pretty much gone, baby. I think this is your anxiety again. The steroids must have kicked it into overdrive.”

“My head is pounding. I just want to sleep for a long, long time,” he said, closing his eyes against Louis’ chest. “I’m so tired, Lou.”

“You had a three-hour nap earlier,” Louis said, rubbing his back. “Those are like gold around here.” he joked. “It didn’t help?”

“The Ativan knocked him out pretty good,” Paul said. “Even so, it’s probably got him feeling like he’s been hit by a truck. Combined with the adrenaline effects from the inhaler, I reckon you’re feeling pretty shitty, Harry. I think a good night’s sleep and a day off tomorrow might do you some good.”

“I’m going to be in so much trouble,” Harry said, covering his face again.

“They would have to go through both Louis and me to get to you for this, Harry,” Paul assured him with a pat on the back. 

“I already took so many days!”

“You’re human, Harry,” Paul said. “You’re allowed to get sick and break down now and again.”

“I’m just tired of getting talked down to for being myself,” Harry started, “and I’m tired of not being able to be near Louis. We can’t be us. We can’t be together on stage or in interviews, and it’s not right. I don’t want to live like this anymore. It’s been eating me up on the inside for months. I’d give up everything, Lou,” Harry whispered, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “ _Everything_.”

“Love, you know I’d never ask you to do that,” Louis had assured him. “There will be time. After all of this. I promise. For now, we just have to get through Simon’s contract. We can make it work. Promise.”

They had been so young back then, Louis thought as he relived that night in his head. They’d been only a block away from where he stood at Herald Square. That night, as he lay beside Harry in their hotel bed, he was sure he’d created a rift between himself and the band members, but he honestly didn’t care at the time. The way that they had just stood there, following directions from management instead of looking out for Harry, was inconceivable. They had promised to look out for one another after the first few lectures from Simon and management, and then they’d stood there, silent, when Harry had needed them the most. 

Louis had succeeded at playing management’s game for the two years prior to Harry’s panic attack because he knew that everything he’d sacrificed for could be ripped from him, from all of them, in an instant. He knew management had that power, that they would use it and abuse it if or when the time came, and he knew that his career wasn’t far along enough yet for it to survive on its own. During X-Factor, he knew he wanted to win and sign a contract, but it wasn’t until he was in it, living the life for real, that it had started to mean that much more to him. To his future as an artist. 

He remembered watching Harry sleep beside him that night, his hair tousled and lips parted as he breathed slow, easy breaths. He’d been so thankful that Harry was finally peaceful after such a terrible few days, and it him made him realize that he, too, was willing to give it all up for Harry. God, they’d really been so young then. If only they’d known then how much worse it would all get: Simon and his asinine rules, the constant reprimanding and emergency meetings about appropriate behavior and speech. The literal lockdown on their public and social interactions in 2013 that resulted in them eventually driving, flying, and lodging separately through nearly a year of recording and touring. How could they have known, then, how all of it would trickle down, slowly but surely, and ruin their seemingly unbreakable relationship?

How could they have known that Louis would be the one to pull the trigger, so to speak, and literally break up the one thing keeping them together?

Only to have them fall completely apart?

The meeting at Modest! was arguably one of the worst days of his life, and that fact that he’d given it all up after putting up with Simon for so long, and left that day without a career plan and without Harry, had been the foundation of his suffering the past two years. He’d given it all up for them, without even asking Harry, and he’d always seen that as his biggest regret. But now, he wasn’t so sure that was true.

Because to be able to do this for Harry, to get on stage and perform one of their songs on national television after everything, filled him with unspeakable joy. He could almost forget every little nagging and negative memory. Louis glanced back at the truck as someone snaked his in-ear wire down the back of his shirt, knowing that Harry was there behind the tinted glass. Harry, who had hid his animosity toward Simon and management for the sake of the band. For the chance to get to do what he loved with his best friends. For Louis. For the hope that one day, he and Louis would be able to be together, free of limits and rules and adults with ulterior motives just to spite them for everything they’d done to hurt them.

“I’d give up everything, Lou. _Everything_.”

He couldn’t help but smile as he climbed the steps to where he’d he be singing in a few moments, happy tears pressing as he realized that he and Harry had gotten to do everything they’d wanted to professionally with One Direction. Everything. Both because of Simon, but also in spite of him.

But this? This here? This was their time. Both because of Simon, but also in spite of him.

Louis’ smile turned into a smirk, and as he felt the float inching toward Macy’s and the crowd cheering, he prayed that Simon would see this. That he’d see all of what was about to happen now that he couldn’t control them any longer.

For years, he’d felt like his heart and soul were trapped in chains, each rebellion a painful tug that left him bruised, but singing that first line of “Fireproof,” made his heart soar in a way it hadn’t been able to for so long.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the kudos and comments! Please read and review!
> 
> Playlist for this Chapter:
> 
> 1\. “Restless Soul” by Flor  
> 2\. “Heart” by Flor  
> 3\. “The Mixed Tape” by Jack’s Mannequin  
> 4\. “Punk Rock Princess” by Something Corporate  
> 5\. “This Wild Ride” by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness  
> 6\. “Cecilia and the Satellite” by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness  
> 7\. “Teenage Rockstar” by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness  
> 8\. “Dark Blue” by Jack’s Mannequin  
> 9\. “Konstantine” by Something Corporate  
>  
> 
> There will be a lot of lyrics in this chapter, but they complement the story well and help Louis say everything he hasn’t been able to articulate himself.
> 
> I know Louis is signed to Simon’s label in the UK; this comment will make sense later.
> 
> There are certain things I refuse to write about in this fic. It’s been easy in some ways and harder in others to draw a line regarding what is appropriate, as I’m writing about real people with real lives. This story is 100% fiction. I can’t pretend to know their real lives, as I don’t know any of the people mentioned in this fic, nor will I pretend to.

It had been three days of Harry on lockdown in their apartment, and Louis was about ready to lose it. He had turned off Harry’s phone and hid it along with his laptop, but that hadn’t stopped Harry from sneaking around the house and searching every closet and drawer he could think of. Eventually, though, he’d been able to get him to focus on sleep, fluids, meds, and Netflix, and Louis was glad by day four that Harry was finally, _finally_ , allowing himself to rest completely.

“We’re going out,” Louis had announced midday on day five, after he was sure that Harry had finished breakfast and all of his morning meds.

Harry put his nebulizer pieces in the sink and sighed. “Lou, I’m not really up for drinking tonight.”

“Alcohol is 100% optional tonight. Promise,” he said, Harry eyeing him; he knew Louis loved to party. “Plus, as much as I love _The Notebook_ , I can’t watch it a seventh time.”

“But you love _The Notebook_.”

“No,” Louis said, laughing. “ _You_ do.”

“Where are we going, then?” Harry asked, his hands on his hips. Louis loved the way he looked in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, his cheeks still rosy, hair tousled. He didn’t need “stage Harry.” The fashion-loving Harry he’d seen in magazines and online was beautiful, but it wasn’t the Harry he loved. The everyday Harry who could make an unironed button-up look like a fashion statement. He missed the days when Harry would throw a headband on and run out on stage in jeans. They hadn’t been talking much, then, weren’t staying at the same hotels or flying together, but it hadn’t mattered; Louis was angry enough to avoid Harry at every turn, yet he couldn’t get the part of him that still loved Harry to stop.

He grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

Harry groaned. “Lou, you know I hate surprises.”

“Trust me,” Louis said, walking away for a moment before he turned on his heel and faced Harry to add, “Oh, and no dressing up. Normal jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie will do. Vans or Converse. No Rolex or Gucci.”

A smile crept across Harry’s face before he started to laugh. “Where are you taking me, The Olive Garden? McDonalds?”

“Hey, The Olive Garden is a classy dining establishment!” he joked. “But no, it’s not Olive Garden. Or McDonald’s, though if you want to stop there on the way, to McDonald’s I mean, I’m game.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry said, laughing.

“Always have been, always will be,” Louis said. “Now go shower and get dressed so we can grab food and get on the road. It’s a bit of a drive.”

X

Louis had been driving for what felt like hours. Harry had passed out sometime after they had grabbed McDonald’s and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, the gray cityscape of Brooklyn, and then Queens, lulling him to sleep. By the time they’d finally made it to suburban Long Island and Louis had parked the car, Harry was awake and driving Louis crazy, continuing his questions about where they were going.

“Here we are,” Louis finally announced as they walked onto the correct street.

Harry read “Stone Hall” as they stopped in front of a small brick venue and held his breath for a moment. “A concert? Lou, are you out of your fucking mind?” Louis could see the panic in Harry’s eyes as they darted around, checking for anyone who might be staring. He shifted close to Louis. “We don’t have any security! What if-”

“No one is going to know who we are,” he whispered, “unless you freak out and make a big scene.”

“That’s impossible, Lou,” Harry argued, voice low. “We can’t do this!”

“We can and we will. Again, trust me.” He smirked and gently pushed Harry toward the security line. “Very few people here will know who we are. I’m sure of it.”

“Everyone knows who we are, Lou.”

“If they do, they won’t bother us.”

“Not possible.”

“It is, you’ll see. And as for whose playing, that’s another surprise.”

“Getting super tired of the surprises, Lou,” Harry snapped, flustered. He had felt okay in the car, but walking from the parking lot had made him winded, and being in public without any security was already exhausting. His fever had been gone for two days now, but he could feel the ache of it lingering in his body.

“If you let your anxiety keep you from doing things, Harry, you’re going to live your life stuck in slow motion. You’re doing it again. The rules thing. That’s what this is about, yeah?”

Harry looked down at his shoes, his eyes concentrating on the Vans Louis had instructed him to wear. It’d been years since he’d thrown them on. Louis wasn’t _wrong_ about the rules thing. Harry _was_ following the set of growing rules he had started developing after the first time they’d been mobbed by fans.

Rule #1: Security.

Rule #2: Avoid places where you can get trapped and always, _always_ , have an exit.

Rule #3a: Smile.

Rule #3b: Slow down. Catch yourself.

That last rule went for any setting: Street, stage, interviews. Harry would give himself ten seconds to let down his act, as long as he was there in time to catch himself. He’d gotten pretty good at it. So much so, that he’d had interviewers and fans comment on his constant positivity. Part of it was true; Harry was a generally positive person. But he had his moments, especially when his anxiety was eating him up from the inside out, or he didn’t feel well enough to do the day but knew he’d be pressured to. Rule 3b was for those moments, the ones where he needed some control. _Any_ control. It was why he was known for not reacting, for speaking slowly in interviews and always having a good answer. He’d learned 3b after the first year of interviews. After the first round of reprimanding from management.

There had been other rules he’d added over the years, even after 1D, but he stopped his mind from spinning, focusing instead on how he hated that he always let that last rule carry over into his home life; he hadn’t had to worry much about home-work balance in so long. There hadn’t really been _time_ for home in the last year and a half. But Louis had always been able to see through it, which was why he was on top of him all of the time, asking him if he was okay and if he needed anything. Everything around him was suddenly overwhelming: the noise, the people, the sickness still making him feel like crap.

“This is going to end up in the National Enquirer. You know how much I hate the pap.” Harry was on the verge of tears, but only Louis could sense it. He knew Harry’s rules were kicking in, since they were in public, and he wished the security line would move faster so that they could be in the safety of the darkness. “Do you at least have an exit planned? Please tell me that you have an exit planned.”

“Don’t worry about any of that. We’ll only be in this line a few more minutes. I promise this will be worth it,” Louis whispered, his hand caressing Harry’s lower back and guiding him forward in the line. “Promise.”

Louis knew that even the thought of being somewhere without anyone in case they got mobbed had been enough to stir Harry’s high anxiety from a week ago. Going to public events, let alone one in the music scene, without security, an exit strategy, or back-up plan, was high up on Harry’s list of no-go’s. It hadn’t helped that one of the bouncers had asked for their licenses and held up a wristband that signaled someone was over 21. They both stated that they weren’t drinking, but the guard explained that it was standard procedure and that he had to verify ages to let people in. Reluctantly, Harry had handed it over, the guard looking at his birthdate and sliding a small yellow wristband around his wrist, his face expressionless as he waved him through to the metal detectors. Harry looked down at his skinny jeans and black t-shirt and felt his anxiety ease slightly. No one had noticed them. Yet. He prayed that no one would. Security asked for their tickets next, Louis handing them over and scanning them before handing the pair off to an usher.

The young male usher who brought them to their seats in the last row of the small mezzanine section above general admission standing-room-only hadn’t done a double-take, and the server who asked if they wanted anything to drink seemed bored, unenthused and unaware of who they were. Relief washed over Harry as the server smacked her gum and poised her pen over her pad, waiting for their drink orders.

“Nothing tonight, thanks,” Louis had said, and she’d gone on to the next row without a hitch.

“I still don’t trust you,” Harry commented, feeling his anxiety bubbling again. He glanced around them, eyes searching for anyone or anything suspicious.

“Breathe, Harry. We’re fine. You need to trust me. I think you’re really gonna love this.”

“You’re not gonna tell me who we’re seeing, are you?” Harry asked.

“Again, it’s-”

“A surprise. I know,” Harry said along with Louis, and rolled his eyes.

Louis reached over and took Harry’s hand in his, their fingers intertwining, and as the first band came out and introduced themselves, Harry began to relax. He liked the rhythm of the first song and felt his heel lifting and falling to the beat. “ _Come and lay down your restless soul_ ,” the chorus went. _“You're wearing, you're wearing out / No currents coming from your restless soul.”_ The audience bopped in their seats to the beat, everyone unsure of the lyrics. They were the opener, something Harry and they guys had never really been; everyone had always known who they were from the very start. The group of four on stage gave it everything they had, the lead singer throwing his long hair back and forth as he grooved in his boots to a pop rock ballad with a touch of synthesizer and syncopated drum rhythms. He was digging their modern vibe and made a mental note to check out their music on iTunes and give them a boost on social media.

Looking at the rest of the stage, he could see that it was set up for another band, the equipment covered with black tarps for seamless transitions. He still wasn’t sure whose concert they were even at yet, but he could make out an A and M in the design on each of the tarps. Harry went through a list in his head of every artist he knew, and nothing was ringing a bell. Song after song, the opener continued to crush it, and he could see in another part of the mezzanine that a woman was dancing and singing along, a fan who had come specifically for them. He smiled, knowing how much it would mean to the guys on stage, who were probably just starting out their careers.

A little girl who looked to be the age of five suddenly caught his eye. She was jumping around the small box section to the right of their seats, her blonde hair flying as she threw her hands in the air and twisted around. She had bright magenta pink headphones on to protect her hearing and seemed to know some of the words to the chorus of the likeable 90s-sounding song that the band was playing. “ _We’ve got the heart, it’s true…_ ” When the song ended, she brushed her hair out of her face and rested against the railing. She started to smile and wave, blowing kisses to everyone in the section. At first, Harry had thought she’d recognized him, but he noticed that she was leaning to wave to people in the rows below them, too, and relaxed further.

“She knows the words,” Harry said to Louis, waving back to the girl with a smile.

“Mmmm,” Louis said, smirking again and waving.

Harry turned to Louis. “What’s so funny?”

“You’ll see.”

“What’s all this ‘trust me’ and ‘you’ll see’ business? What’s the big secret?”

“Stop asking questions or you’ll ruin it. Just enjoy the music, Harry. You’re allowed to sit and enjoy the music,” Louis assured him.

The main act started with an array of flashing lights in the darkness and slow piano. Despite the pitch-black stage, he could hear someone singing, “ _This is morning / that’s when I spend the most time...”_

The guitar kicked in and bright lights illuminated the entire stage, revealing a band of five.

“ _Thinking ‘bout what I’ve given up_ ,” the singer, a 30-year-old blonde-haired man yelled into the mic attached to his piano, his pitch perfect. “ _This is a warning / When you start the day / Just to close the curtains / You're thinking 'bout what I've given up._ ” Harry thought it was interesting that he was wearing a pale blue button up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, with slim fit moss green highwaters and white slip-on Vans. Casual, but so California.“ _Where are you now? / As I'm swimming through this stereo / I'm writing you a symphony of sound / Where are you now? / As we rearrange these songs again / This mix could burn a hole in anyone / But it was you I was thinking of / It was you I was thinking of._ ”

Harry was lulled by the instant musicality, the rhythm and lyrics pulling on strings deep within him. He’d never heard the song before, but he felt like he had. It was so familiar…so… _Lou_.

“ _There's a piece of me in every single second of every single day / But if it’s true to tell me how we got this way._ ” Harry reveled in the guitar, drums, and piano, the song intensifying before it slowed slightly, the bridge revamping as it led back into the chorus. “ _I swear to God, this mix could sink the sun…_ ”

“Lou, is this for me?” Harry asked before he could stop himself. “Did you…my album…you didn’t write an album yet…is this…?”

“ _This is my mixtape for [you] / It’s like I wrote every note with my own fingers…_ ,” Louis finished along with the singer and what Harry felt like was the entire crowd.

“Babe,” he started, speechless.

“Just listen to the music, love,” Louis whispered in his ear. “This is for you.”

The next song was fast-paced and about being young and having a punk rock princess. “ _You could be my punk rock princess, I could be your garage band king_.” Harry liked the punky guitar style and catchy lyrics, all of which Louis knew. The song sounded different from the first one, younger and gungier, but it was irresistibly catchy. He wondered when Louis had discovered this band, since he hadn’t ever remembered Louis listening to them in the past, but tucked the question away and jammed out with Louis, remembering the chorus and belting it out. Whoever this band was, they were something. Harry was almost sorry he had never heard of them. It felt like he was reliving his youth all over again. That happy, carefree feeling that he’d been missing. “ _If I could be your first real heartache, I would do it over again…,_ ” Louis sang, looking Harry right in the eyes as he finished the last few lines of the song.

And then he heard quiet before the solo pianist came in again, the singer singing slowly and softly about sleeping tight and how he would “ _Come to your defense / Whatever road you're taking / Tonight, I know nothing's making sense / But I'll guard the room you wake in._ ”

“Lou,” he whispered, feeling tears press as he listened.

“Shh, love,” he heard in response. “ _Close your eyes / Follow the sound of my voice / My voice._ ” Drums entered and made Harry’s heart swell with contentment. “ _’Cause I'm gonna sing / You are the boat I'm the ocean that rocks you to sleep / You're the balloon I'm the ballast attached to the string / If you're in too deep / Or you climb too high / On this wild, this wild ride,_ ” Louis sang along with the lyrics.

Harry let the tears fall, his hand squeezing Louis’. “Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes and just enjoying the soothing music that filled his chest and heart with comfort and positivity. The anxiety melted away and Harry could feel himself moving his head along to the music.

“ _Sleep tight,_ _there are dreams you have not dreamed / And doors to worlds unopened / Don't fight / Some questions aren't worth answering / Some hearts that break aren't broken_.”

Harry wasn’t sure how, but the band went immediately into another energetic song, and soon he lost track of how many songs they’d played. The singer made speeches here and there, referencing other bands, which made Harry think that maybe he’d been in a few different bands over time. He talked about his experiences on the road, about being a cancer survivor and how much his foundation to match bone marrow donors with those in need meant to him, and Harry felt himself relating to the singer and his lyrics more and more with every minute that passed.

The little girl with the magenta headphones continued to dance, giggling and singing along to certain choruses with a woman, presumably her mother, in the box to their right. In the brief moments between songs, Harry could feel that his ears buzzing, something he hadn’t felt in so long. It felt so freeing to not have in-ears and a monitor attached to his waist with wires twisting and pulling beneath his shirt. His chest felt light, his spirit rising and calming with each successive song. Eventually, the singer played a little ditty on the piano, and the crowd cheered. “Not yet,” he teased. “First, I have to dedicate this song to my beautiful daughter.” Harry watched as the singer pointed up toward little girl in the box to their right and said, “This one’s for you, sweetheart,” before breaking into “Cecilia and the Satellite.”

“She’s…his daughter?” Harry asked, and Louis grinned.

“This is a family show, Styles,” he joked, squeezing Harry’s hand again, and he knew, then, that Louis had watched the videos of his concerts. Harry smiled, thinking about how everything that night had clicked into place. The sounds. The lyrics. The togetherness he felt in such a giant, crowded room with someone who had felt so far away for so long. The _freedom_ to be somewhere where he could be himself.

Freedom.

To rest and breathe and find contentment on his own terms. To love Louis the way he wanted to. To have something that belonged to no one else, that couldn’t be tied to any dollar amount.

Harry checked his watch as the song ended, and the band walked off. “Do they usually do an encore?”

“He hasn’t even played “Konstantine” yet,” Louis said, laughing, and Harry wasn’t sure what that meant. Before he could ask, though, the band walked back on. These guys were insane, he thought. How did they keep up the energy for so long? Harry thought back to those long nights when, after shows, he had to do an hour of training. He’d sometimes get to bed at two in the morning, have four hours of sleep, and be up and ready for an interview by seven. Many of those days, he also had a show, and the cycle would continue and continue until he got sick, and even then, it wasn’t a guarantee that he’d get a few extra hours. Thinking about it made him realize how fatigued he was getting.

“Just wanted to thank all of you for coming out tonight,” the singer started, Harry’s attention brought back to the stage. “We live in a crazy world and I love that we can use this time and space come together as total strangers and sing along together for a few hours. We’ve got a few more songs for you tonight. We’re Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness and it’s been a pleasure, New York,” he said, before sitting back at his piano and starting “Teenage Rockstars.” Harry couldn’t get over how almost every single line had reminded him of him and Lou. Their beginning, their middle, their _now_. The crowd went wild as he went into a song with heavy drum beats, and by the time the lyrics came in, “ _Dark blue, dark blue, have you ever been alone in a crowded room?,_ ” it felt like everyone but Harry was singing them passionately. He was falling in love with the vibe, jealous of how engaged but tame everything was. The crowd seemed older, probably around the same age as the band on stage, and he wondered if maybe this was what he had to look forward to in his 30’s. Smaller, more intimate venues. Crowds that didn’t throw things on stage or mob him at restaurants. He loved his fans and would do nearly anything for them, but he was _tired_ of the constant screaming over his voice and not being able to see who he was singing to. He didn’t want gigantic stage set-ups and enough speakers to break the sound barrier anymore.

That, and there had also been a thread of nagging thoughts growing in the back of his mind for months now: What happened when it all _stopped_ for more than a few months at a time? What happened when he wasn’t 24 anymore and his fans had also grown? What happened when he wanted more than just a career?

The next song, which Harry presumed was the last because the concert was pushing two hours and even he was exhausted, started with a small piano riff. The crowd screamed louder than they had before any other song, and he heard someone on the floor shout, “Konstantine!”

“Is that the name of the song?” Harry asked, trying to focus on the words. There was just so much piano in this one, so much that he could feel each key stroke in his _chest_. Man, this singer is was quite a beast on piano, he thought. Musically and lyrically talented. Amazing at engaging with the audience. Harry was sure he’d found his new favorite artist.

“It’s nine minutes and 37 seconds of pure genius,” Louis said.

“Nine minutes?! For a song?” That had gone against every rule Harry had ever learned during writing.

“Shh,” Louis said, pressing a finger to Harry’s lips. “Just listen.”

“ _It’s always you in my big dreams_ …” Louis sang along, grabbing and squeezing Harry’s hand.

“ _And you don't want to be here in the future so you say the present's just a pleasant interruption to the past / And you don't want to look much closer ‘cause you’re afraid to find out all this hope / You had sent into the sky by now had crashed / And it did because of me_ ,” McMahon sang, the volume of the piano growing, a keyboard and guitar entering. “ _And then you bring me home / Afraid to find out that you're alone / And I'm sleeping in your living room / But we don't have much room to live_.”

A backbeat full of bass and energy streamed through the speakers, adding to the piano melody. It was almost calming, Harry thought.

“ _And I had these dreams that I learned to play guitar / Maybe cross the country, become a rock star,”_ he sang, the crowd cheering after the last line. “ _And there was hope in me that I could take you there / But dammit you're so young, well I don't think I care / And if I hurt you, then I'm sorry / Please don't think that this was easy_ ,” he continued, going into the chorus.

Sometime during the song, as the singer added multiple layers of piano and the drummer came in, Harry felt the music take him somewhere else. “ _He’ll never hurt you like I do_ …” He could feel the wall’s falling down at the last chorus, the music and words full of power and a deep aching. He hung on to every word as Louis sang along beside him. “ _I said does anybody need that room, because we all need a little more room, to live_ … _My Konstantine._ ”

Room to live. Harry didn’t know what that felt like. Maybe it felt like things in the beginning, before ridiculous recording and touring schedules. Maybe it was what he felt in Jamaica, or being at home in Holmes Chapel with his family. Whatever it was, it sounded exactly like what he needed.

The crowd cheered for a while before people began to leave, the floor clearing quickly once the crew began to take the stage apart. Harry and Louis lingered, waiting for the section, and the venue, to empty more before they left. Harry was lost in his head, the lyrics and music swirling alongside his anxiety. The concert had been so rejuvenating, but it was almost as if the second the music stopped, the worry had begun to seep in, and now he couldn’t get it to disappear.

“I didn’t know how to say all of that to you, and I’m not sure it was everything I want to say,” Louis explained when they finally got back into the dark car. Louis fiddled with his keys as he spoke. “I knew that whatever his setlist was, it would be the perfect mix tape. I’d kind of resigned myself to the fact that I was destined to reap what I sowed. And then you called me and it’s honestly all felt like a dream since then. This last week’s been everything I missed and needed, but it’s also been hard to process everything, you know?”

Harry nodded.

“A friend sent me a Spotify playlist and I was confused because the singer sounded the same but the songs were all different styles. They overlapped some, but I liked the different vibes. It took me a bit to figure out he started in a high school band, moved on a solo project, and then changed his solo name to reflect his newer style. I’ve seen him a few times now. His shows are a lot different than what we’re used to. And no one ever recognizes me, so I can hide in the back row and just enjoy the music. That’s been my thing lately. Enjoying the music for the sake of the music. Staying in the shadows.”

“I thought I was too tired to enjoy the music for the sake of the music, but tonight, that was,” Harry started, searching for the words. “Definitely needed. I feel…better? A little bit better? I’m trying to remember the last music had that affect.”

“You know, before we went on hiatus, that’s how I felt, too. I wanted nothing to do with music. I didn’t want to listen to it. Not on my phone or in my car or in clubs. I was sick of music. I kept telling myself that I’d miss it someday, recording and touring and everything, but I needed a break so badly that I was willing to let everything go. I feel like you might be at that point, Harry. It’s not a good place. It’s not good for the soul.”

“Except, I’m too afraid to let it go at all,” Harry admitted. “I know I need the break, which I think I’m kind of taking right now, but I don’t know what happens _after_. That’s why my anxiety’s been so bad. What does the future look like? What happens if the band gets back together? What happens if we all continue on our solo paths? It’s supposed to be exciting, but it’s just not, because I keep wondering what happens to _us_ during all of the possible scenarios? People are going to want to know every single detail of our lives. It’s going to start all over again. It was fine when we weren’t together, but now, I don’t know. What are we? Who are we?”

“Harry, we can be whoever we want to be. Whatever we want to be. It doesn’t need to be public. I told you before, you don’t owe people things. You’re always thinking 10,000 steps ahead all of the time. You’re always preoccupied by your rules and of what everyone else is going to think if you aren’t the best version of yourself 100% of the time. It’s not possible and it’s why you’ve spent the last five days battling bronchitis.”

“So, you’re suggesting that I just stop, what, existing?” Harry said, laughing. “You’ve known me forever, Lou. You know I can’t just stop being myself. My anxiety’s-”

“High-functioning anxiety, Harry. You don’t sleep because your mind is constantly running a marathon,” Louis explained, his voice gentle so as not to make Harry feel like he was yelling. “You purposely avoid anything that will cause conflict; you _hate_ conflict. You’re a perfectionist. You crumble when you think you’ve disappointed others, especially fans. I know you take anxiety meds and go to yoga, but I feel like it’s not doing enough for you. It’s destroying you, love.”

Harry bit his lip. “I know,” he replied, looking out the window.

“Can I help you untangle some of it? It’s like a switch was flipped for you the second the music started and then again when it stopped.”

Harry chuckled to himself. “I actually thought that exact thing ten minutes ago. Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

“How could I not, Harry? You were my first love. My best friend. I know we’ve been through some real shit but I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you could do that would ever make me not care about you.”

“We didn’t speak for two years, Lou.”

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you non-stop. And I may or may not have bought myself an entire box at one of your New York concerts.” Louis cringed, slightly embarrassed by the thought.

Harry turned and looked at him, confused for a moment. “That was you?!” Harry asked, laughing, teeth showing and tears in his eyes, and Louis couldn’t help but join him. Harry had seen the lit-up box from the stage, but hadn’t thought much of it until that moment. “For real? You bought a bloody box to come and see me rather than just call me?” He tried to calm himself down, but the thought of Louis calling up the venue to buy an entire box, which he didn’t even sell as part of his ticket packages, sent him back into hysterical laughter.

“I wasn’t ready to say that I was sorry, and I was afraid that if I did say it you wouldn’t say it either, and then I wouldn’t get to see you perform at all, so I just bought the whole box.” Louis laughed along with Harry, and he was grateful that he could laugh about all of it now that his heart wasn’t breaking. Harry started to cough from laughing so hard, but he laughed through that too and grabbed the water bottle in the center console to take a long sip.

“Of course you’d never say you were sorry first,” Harry said once he’d gotten his coughing to stop, laughing as he hit Louis’ arm with the backside of his. “You’re as stubborn as they come.”

“You could say the same about yourself,” Louis said, laughing as he playfully hit Harry back. “God, you were in your element on that stage, love. You looked so fucking overwhelmed with happiness. Like a proper star. You’ve always been a star, but wow. You were happier than I’d seen you in a long, long time.” Louis sensed that it was getting cold, so he turned the car on. “You deserve to be happy, Harry, and if the music isn’t making you happy right now, you should take a break. I know you think your anxiety makes you who you are, but you’re more than that. So much more. Music is like your second heartbeat. I’ve always said you’ve got an old soul, and it comes out in your music. Honestly, listening to your album was like being in the same room as you, H.”

“Yeah, and what’s that like?” Harry asked, voice deep, a smile still spread on his face. He put the water bottle down.

“Really putting me on the spot here, Styles,” Louis laughed, suddenly nervous. “Um,” he said, trying to buy time to think. How could he possibly put the feeling into words? “I guess…it’s kind of like…like the rest of the world falls away. And everything gets quiet. And all I can focus on is you.” Louis licked his lips and thought a bit more. “It makes me feel like everything has clicked into place, like everything in the world is where it’s supposed to be. I feel _right_. Safe. I used to feel so safe with you by my side. It’s been…really hard without you, Harry.”

Harry nodded, knowing what Louis was referencing. “You know, when the singer introduced the little girl with the pink headphones as his daughter, I thought about us. What we would look like in ten years. Twenty. Do you think we could have that, Lou? That we could do this without giving everything up?”

“Who said we have to give anything up?”

“We’ve always had to give something up to do music, Lou. Always.”

“We don’t have to have it all figured out to move forward, Harry. We don’t have to label it. We don’t have to follow any rules.” Louis paused, seeing Harry look down, his hair falling and covering the side of his face. “Does that scare you?” he asked, brushing Harry’s hair out of his eyes. “I feel like that scares you.”

“So much,” Harry whispered, and Louis worried he was on the verge of tears by the way his voice had cracked. “We didn’t define our relationship before and look at how that worked out. We didn’t have _rules_.”

“That was management, Harry-”

“Was it?” Harry asked, his glassy eyes meeting Louis’. “Was all of it management? Or our fanbase speculating and intruding and pushing us apart? Or was some of it actually us, Lou?”

“You really believe that?”

“We were young and scared and not really sure what we were as individuals. As a couple. In the same band. Yeah, we had pressure and it was exhausting getting asked about it all of the time, but we weren’t innocent either, Lou. We fought. We made it hard for everyone else sometimes. _A lot of the times_ We can’t pretend that we didn’t…that we didn’t-” Harry said before breaking into a string of coughs.

“Love,” Louis sighed, rubbing Harry’s back with one hand and grabbing the water bottle with the other. “This is what I was talking about before when I said that you let your mind run a marathon.” He nudged Harry with the water when he finished coughing, and Harry took the bottle to take a few sips.

“But I’m right, Lou,” he added, voice rough.

Louis was not thrilled about the direction the conversation was going in, nor was he happy about the fact that Harry’s wheeze was back. The awful, dreaded wheeze at every exhale that meant Harry’s meds were wearing off. “Yes, Harry, you’re right,” he said, sighing, “but that doesn’t discount the fact-”

“That my anxiety makes me rehash every single interaction, conversation, and decision I’ve ever made?” The tears began falling down Harry’s red cheeks. He sniffled, wiping them away as they continued to fall.

“You’re working yourself up, Harry,” Louis soothed, rubbing Harry’s back again. “You’re just getting over being sick and it’s getting late. It’s been a long day. Why don’t I get us home and-”

“Stop!” Harry yelled, pulling away from Louis’ hand on his back. “Stop doting on me every five fucking seconds! I know that I’m sick. I know I’m wheezing and that I need a goddamn breathing treatment.” Harry took a deep, steadying breath, and then another, before he was sure he wouldn’t start coughing. He really didn’t want to yell. That, and his lungs were starting to grow heavy again, and they still had at least a two hour drive back to Manhattan. “I _know_. I know and I don’t need you constantly gauging how I feel and on top of me every time my breathing hitches.”

“It’s kind of hard to not be on top of you when you can’t _breathe_ , Harry,” Louis explained softly. “I know you like to be independent. You want to take care of everyone else and don’t want anyone to have to take care of you. And maybe right now, you’re right. Maybe I am doting on you a little too much. But sometimes, you do need someone to help you. This last week, you needed people to be there for you. It happens and it’s okay. You have a lot of people who care enough to be there for you when you can’t be there for yourself.”

Harry knew that he’d gotten sick the most on tour out of all members of the band. That he’d had the most chest colds and bouts of laryngitis, that he’d puked more than anyone and spent the most time on vocal rest. And yet, he’d done nearly every show and interview. He’d gone out there feeling like he was breathing underwater and jumped around until he saw stars and had to hold on to his mic stand to keep him steady. He’d done breathing treatments on moving busses, in hallways during costume changes, and in studios between recording takes. The fear of stopping had consumed him, and he wasn’t sure Louis would understand _why_.

“I can see the gears turning in your head, babe,” Louis stated. “What are you thinking about?”

“I don’t know if it’ll make any sense,” Harry admitted.

“Try me.”

“Do you know why I hate stopping? Resting?”

“Because you’re stubborn and hate hearing the word ‘no’? Because resting is isn’t in your vocabulary?” Louis asked jokingly, and Harry was appreciative of the fact that Louis was inserting small moments of comedic relief into their serious conversation. It didn’t feel forced or inappropriate; it was actually one of the things he’d missed most about Louis; no one could make him feel less on edge or judged when he let his deepest thoughts out in front of him.

“If I stop, I lose my momentum,” Harry explained. “Resting for other people means rejuvenation, but to me, it means more time to focus on myself and _think_ , which is way more daunting than just propelling myself forward for another day. I’d rather do a show than lay in the dressing room or on the bus with my mind spinning. I’d rather go the extra mile when I don’t know if I really can because then at least I have control. I can control what happens on stage or in an interview. Focusing on that one hour is easier than letting my mind run wild. And I could fool a lot of people, Lou, but I could never fool you. You always knew when I wasn’t feeling right. Even when we weren’t talking.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about this before, Harry?”

“Because it makes me sound crazy,” he said, shrugging. “Sometimes I think my anxiety is what makes me so successful, and I get scared that, without it, I won’t push myself. I want this crazy life full of music and travelling, but I don’t get to pick and choose and ignore the pieces I don’t want. The pieces that make it all worse. I can’t control any of that.”

“There are a lot of pieces we can’t control in this game, love, but we can focus on the ones we can. You know what I was thinking when I was singing in the parade?”

“That you wished I hadn’t called you?” Harry joked, and Louis laughed

“No, that Simon was watching. A real bait and switch, you know? That he saw a recording of me up there after everyone was expecting you and could see that we’re still friends, even after everything he and management put us through. And you’re right that it wasn’t just their fault, and it wasn’t just the fans, either. We were guilty. We self-destructed, in a way. I guess we’re both stubborn like that. Maybe we wanted some power over the people who had so much power over us.”

“Me being stubborn is more about me wanting control over a situation than actually wanting to have power over a person, though,” Harry said. “Whenever it felt like nothing was in my control, I could focus on my rules. They make me seem inflexible and stubborn to management, but they keep me grounded. Maybe it’s a bit obsessive, but it works. It keeps me going.”

“You don’t have to keep going, Harry.”

“I don’t have to, but sometimes I _want_ to. I-”

“Do you? Because part of me thinks back to Wembley, when you were sick in 2014 and it lasted for weeks. You went out on stage with a fever and even though your voice had come back, your sinuses and lungs were a mess. I remember because Liam and Zayn kept checking in on you and there was so much chatter going on through my in-ears. You voice fell out a few measures before the end of “Through the Dark” and when I looked over, you seemed about ready to pass out. That wasn’t the only time. I know the pressure we’re under for even just one show is unusual, that we have contracts and thousands of people expecting a lot out of us, but I was convinced I was going to have to carry you off of that stage that night. You were going so hard. I could see how much pain you were in in the off moments. Your anxiety-”

“Sometimes, it’s not my anxiety that makes me want to do the shows, Lou. I hate being sick. I hate performing sick. But sometimes, I need normalcy. Sometimes, I want to feel like I’m getting back to my routine. That’s what happened at Wembley. I know you think I’m crazy and that it’s my anxiety making me go out there, but this isn’t about that at all. I don’t do all of these things because I want the attention. I do it because _I want things_ and doing it sick is sometimes the only way I can get to do those things.”

“That’s not normal, Harry. I don’t mean that in a mean way, I just-”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “I told you that I thought this wouldn’t make sense to you. It’s my normal. My every day. Was I just supposed to give up show after show? 2014 was like one giant flare up. I was on enough prednisone to sink a ship. It gets frustrating, not just day after day, but week after week. Before Wembley, I knew my health was taking a toll on all of you, and it was killing me to feel like I was half-assing every performance, so I made the executive decision to just get out there and perform like my life depended on it. I figured being out there would make me happy, so it wasn't a complete lie. I didn’t care about what happened _after_ because I knew exactly what it would be like. I’d been through the _after_ a million times, so I wasn’t anxious or scared. I just wanted to feel like myself.”

“But _we_ were scared, love,” Louis tried explaining. “It’s so hard to watch you suffer like that.”

“That’s the thing, though. It’s _my_ illness, yet I can never make the right decision to make everyone else comfortable.” Harry thought for a moment. “I can’t tell people the truth because they don’t always want to hear it. I can’t lie because you see through it. I’m not allowed to not want to talk about my symptoms, especially when everyone is hounding me and wants to know how I’m feeling. My asthma isn’t always an issue. It’s basically invisible until it’s not, and it’s difficult to juggle everyone’s questions and advice and looks when it starts to flare. It’s a different mindset than most people have because most people don’t have to think like this,” Harry explained, and Louis couldn’t understand how _calm_ he was in describing this part of his life. He’d known that Harry’s anxiety manifested in various ways, but he’d never known about this side of it. The way his health affected it. “It’s honestly more about convincing myself that the choice I’m making in the moment is the right one. I know I’m not going to please everyone around me 100% of the time, or even myself, and I know that there aren’t always options that don’t involve consequences.”

Louis looked at Harry, his eyes filling with tears. The last line had sunk in the most: _There aren’t always options that don’t involve consequences_.

“Babe, are you crying?” Harry asked, grabbing his arm.

“In a cool way,” Louis tried to joke with a fake smile, referencing Harry’s _Carpool Karaoke_ episode, but he could barely get the words out.

“Did I upset you?” Harry was suddenly on alert and looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, Lou, I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t upset me,” Louis interrupted, rubbing his eyes. “I think I’m more upset that I didn’t _know_. I didn’t understand why you were almost never honest with me. You can always be honest with me, Harry. About anything.”

“I made you cry again. I thought we promised no more crying,” Harry said, rubbing his thumb up and down Louis’ arm.

“I made you cry, too,” Louis said, laughing as he wiped away the last of his tears.

“In a cool way.” Harry laughed, knowing that it would make Louis continue to laugh. Louis turned toward Harry, the two smiling as their heads moved toward each other. Their lips locked as Louis cupped his hand around Harry’s, a long, slow kiss, shared between them.

“Let’s go home, yeah?” Louis whispered, Harry nodding.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading and reviewing! Comment with your favorite parts!

“What’s all of this?” Harry asked, walking into the kitchen after a long, hot shower to find Louis surrounded by brown paper Whole Foods bags on the counter. He knew Louis had left to run errands when he woke from a morning nap on the couch to find the house empty. Quiet.

 

“Since there’s two feet of snow on the ground outside, and since you’re still recovering from our concert excursion yesterday, I figured we’d do something other than watch Netflix today,” Louis explained as he pulled boxes, canisters, and jars from the bags.

 

“Whipped cream? Frosting? Are these fucking cherries? Lou,” he said, picking up the jar and laughing. “This is a little…forward, don’t you think?”

 

“Your mind’s always in the gutter,” Louis said, smirking as he took the jar from Harry. “I thought we’d make cupcakes. The cherries are for the top.”

 

“The top, eh?” Harry bantered, raising his eyebrows and elbowing Louis.

 

“If you’re gonna keep making comments like that…,” Louis started, instantly going to tickle Harry.

 

“No!” Harry squealed as Louis wrapped his arms around his middle, the two falling slowly to the floor as Louis tickled his stomach. Harry hoped that Louis had forgotten how ticklish his feet were, but he knew there was no way that was possible the moment he went right for his most sensitive spot: the back of his neck. “Lou!” he yelled, laughing uncontrollably.

 

“What’s the magic word?” Louis teased, still tickling.

 

“Cookie,” Harry tried to get out, his imitation of Cookie Monster lost in hysterics.

 

Louis reached one arm down to tickle his feet. “Nope!”

 

“Poutine!” he yelled, which got a laugh out of Louis.

 

“Try again. Third times the charm,” Louis baited, and for a moment, even though Harry wasn’t a fan of tickling by any means, he felt himself leaning in toward Louis. He liked being in his arms and laughing so hard that his cheeks hurt; when was the last time they had done _this_?

 

“Suspenders,” Harry said, laughing for a beat before his breath hitched and he coughed.

 

Louis stopped immediately, pulling a still laughing and coughing Harry up to a sitting position on the tile floor.

 

“M’fine,” Harry said, voice deep and raspy, before Louis could ask him. He coughed again to clear his throat and took a deep, easy breath. “See? No wheeze.” He smiled softly.

 

Louis took a steadying breath of his own and ran a hand through his hair, the panic that had filled him the moment he’d heard Harry cough still lingering. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, nervous, eyes searching Harry’s for any sign of discomfort. “Be honest with me, H.”

 

“Are you going to do this every time I cough?” Harry jested, leaning his head on Louis’ shoulder to catch his breath. “I feel great, Lou. Better than I’ve felt in a while.”

 

Louis raised a questioning eyebrow. “You fell asleep on the couch mid-treatment after breakfast.” He thought back to a snoozing Harry in a faded sweatshirt, curled into an upright ball against the back corner of the couch in the living room, curly hair in a headband and mouth relaxed as he held the misting nebulizer mouthpiece in place. Louis had stopped and leaned against the entryway to the living room, a steaming cuppa in his hand as he smiled and thought about how he’d missed these slow mornings full of old sweatshirts, Harry headbands, and tea.

 

“I’ve never been a morning person,” Harry said, shrugging. “You know that.” When he saw that Louis was staying quiet, he nudged him. “I promise I’m fine. Let’s go bake those cupcakes, yeah?”

 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Louis whispered, taking Harry’s hand in his as he thought about the next morning. An airport morning with a 4 am wake-up and 4:30 pick-up for his 6 am flight to Los Angeles. A rushed morning, if Louis knew Harry as well as he thought he did, which would make it a thousand times worse.

 

“I don’t want to leave either,” Harry admitted, lacing his fingers through Louis’.

 

“I’m worried about you,” Louis said, and fuck it all if that wasn’t the truth. Why he wasn’t sleeping. Why he hadn’t told Harry everything yet. He was too anxious about who would be on top of Harry about his meds, if anyone would be looking out for him to make sure he didn’t get worse, to even let himself focus on anything else the last few days. Would Jase make sure he got enough sleep? That he ate reasonably? Had he been shocked into being a little more understanding of Harry’s needs the other day, or would he run him in back into the ground again?

 

“I can take care of myself,” Harry reasoned, wishing they’d just kept up the baking banter and started making the cupcakes. “I didn’t…cause this,” he said with a hand on his chest, his voice cracking and eyebrows knitting.

 

“Of course you didn’t, Harry,” Louis replied gently, watching as Harry came close, buried his face in Louis’ shirt, and melted into his arms. “Hey, talk to me, babe,” Louis cooed, running his fingers through Harry’s hair. He couldn’t help but be suddenly reminded of 18-year-old Harry. The Harry that was always so mushy and responsive to Louis’ touch, the one that used to fall asleep like this on Louis’ chest back when they lived together. Back when things were new and exciting and _so much simpler_.

 

“I know you’re independent,” Louis tried, hoping he could get a response out of Harry. “It’s what I love most about you. But what if something happens and you’re not in a position to care for yourself in LA? Who will be there?”

 

Harry swallowed, not wanting to think about his health anymore. About tomorrow’s departure. About the future. “Jase knows now,” he mumbled, refusing to move his face from Louis’ shirt.

 

“He knows and he _still_ fought the doctor when he advised that he cancel everything for you this week.” Louis gently trailed his nails up and down Harry’s back and felt his muscles relax beneath his touch. “Look at me,” he whispered, Harry lifting his head but refusing to meet Louis’ eyes. “I know you’re not back to 100% yet and I don’t want you to be alone in this, love. You don’t have to be. I know you, and I know-”

 

“Come with me,” Harry said, finally looking up at Louis, and Louis could see that Harry was holding back tears. “ _Please_.”

 

“Harry,” Louis started. “I would love that more than anything, but you know what will happen if we’re together in public.”

 

“We were just in public yesterday and it was fine! Maybe-”

 

“That was different, Harry,” Louis said, shaking his head. “You weren’t working. People weren’t expecting you to be anywhere because nobody knew _where_ you were. You’ve essentially been on house arrest. Imagine us showing up at an airport together. Just flying to LA would spark a frenzy. You know this. We’ve been through this before and it always ends the same: Paparazzi and fans swarming, awkward interview questions for months after, us lying as we try out best to use our media training-”

 

“I don’t care anymore, Lou. I don’t fucking care about any of it. The people, the pap, the rumors. If I never make another record again-”

 

“First of all, I’d never take your music from you, Harry,” Louis interrupted. “You know that.”

 

“I want to play by our own rules this time,” Harry posed, sitting up straighter. “We can do this on _our terms_ if you just come with me! You said it yourself that we can figure it out as we go. We don’t need rules.”

 

“I’m in the middle of writing and recording,” Louis stated, his response physically painful as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “I-I can’t keep pushing back my release…”

 

“You’re recording? Lou, why didn’t you _say anything_?” Harry asked, another thought crossing his mind, his face going pale. “Fuck, I didn’t even…I didn’t even _ask you_ if you…what you’ve been doing since…I’m such an _asshole_ …”

 

“You’re not an asshole, Harry. The last few months have been my first opportunity to slow down, and I was supposed to work this week, but then you got so sick and I couldn’t just leave you alone like that,” Louis said, frazzled. “I was going to tell you, and then everything got crazy, like it _always fucking does_ , and I didn’t want to burden you. You were already dealing with so much.”

 

“You should have told me,” Harry said, his breaths quickening as he stood up from the floor. “I can’t keep you from _your_ music, Lou. I can keep myself from my own, but I can’t…I can’t…” he continued, shaking his head.

 

“Harry,” Louis said, getting up and coming over to support him.

 

“I’m fine!” Harry yelled, putting a hand up to keep Louis from touching him. “I’m madder at myself for not asking you about you than anything else right now. I’m just….worked up.” Louis’ mouth opened, but Harry interjected with, “ _I’m fine_. I’m not glass, Lou. You keep acting like I’m going to _break_.”

 

“You _did break_ , though, Harry! That’s why I’m so worried about you! You couldn’t even walk or say a full sentence the other night. I really thought I was going to have to bring you to the emergency, and I would have. If you had asked me to, or if you got even 1% worse than you were, I would have. I’d do anything for you, Harry. _I’d literally do anything_ , I just…I don’t have the stability that you have right now to drop recording right now.”

 

Harry laughed out loud at Louis’ last comment. “Stability?” he repeated. “Nothing about this,” he said, gesturing to himself, “is stable, Lou. I’m a fucking mess. I’ve been feverish and coughing up gunk, all while living in old sweatshirts on your couch, for a week.”

 

“Our couch,” Louis corrected, their eyes locking. “Plus, sleepy Harry in headbands and comfy clothes on a rainy or snowy day is my favorite Harry.” He smiled and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck.

 

“Not Gucci Harry?”

 

“Mm,” Louis said, pretending to think. “I prefer baker Harry over Gucci.”

 

“Really?” Harry asked with a laugh, pretending to question Louis’ statement before he pulled away, rushing over to the pantry door.

 

“What are you doing?” Louis asked, and Harry could only laugh to himself as he closed the door behind him. “Love, come on out of the closet. Please?”

 

A second later, Harry emerged with a smirk, naked with nothing but an apron on.

 

Harry’s apron. The flour sack one with the red and cream stripes from his job at the bakery back in Holmes Chapel.

 

“I’m not sure whether I should laugh or be turned on,” Louis said, unable to contain his laughter.

 

“How about both?” Harry asked, posing en vogue, and Louis laughed again, loving that Harry was quickly sliding back into his old self. The one that didn’t make sure every piece of hair was gelled to perfection or calculate every word and movement for the press. The one who _really_ smiled. Who loved to strip naked any chance he could get because he used to not care. He didn’t _have_ _to_.

 

“How am I supposed to say no to LA when you come out like this?” Louis asked, Harry answering by pulling him toward the counter, lifting the whipped cream can and jar of cherries into each of his hands.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been super ill and unable to update quickly, but I promise I'm still writing!
> 
> Comments let me know what you love, dislike, and want to see, so please make sure to comment!
> 
> Thank you again for reading!

Louis had set an early alarm, much earlier than they needed, really, and was sure to keep the volume low enough so that Harry wouldn’t wake when it went off. It’d been fifteen minutes already since he’d heard the faint guitar strum of the alarm, but Louis didn’t want to move from his place beneath the covers beside Harry. God, he could watch him sleep all day with his lips parted, cheeks crimson, and hair ruffled against the bedsheets, he thought. Just lying there and taking in the sight of Harry made his heart full.

 

He heard Harry murmur and shift slightly, his love’s fingers reaching out and brushing his arm. “Is it time?” Harry asked softly from beneath the duvet, his voice husky from sleep.

 

“Almost,” Louis whispered, an ache growing in his heart. They’d only had a few of these moments before, of _leaving leaving,_ and he was sure he wasn’t ready.

 

“Don’t wanna,” Harry whined, scooting closer to Louis.

 

“How’re you feeling, love?” Louis asked, Harry’s green eyes opening as Louis brushed his dark curls from his face. He could see red and fatigue in Harry’s eyes, the kind that came from a restless night’s sleep.

 

Harry rubbed his face and sighed. “You already know how I’m feeling.”

 

“Do I, now?” Louis asked, playing dumb even though he could hear the smallest wheeze at the end of some of Harry’s breaths.

 

Harry gave a small, sleepy smile and coughed. “You always know when I’m having trouble, Lou. You’re always gauging, always ten steps ahead of me.”

 

“Guess I just know you too well,” Louis said, resting his chin on his crossed arms so that he could face Harry.

 

“Maybe if…” Harry started, stopping himself and looking away from Louis.

 

“Maybe what?” Louis pushed.

 

Harry shook his head. “S’not important. Doesn’t make any sense. Forget I even said it.”

 

“Maybe what, Harry? You can tell me.”

 

Harry took in a slow breath and licked his lips. “I keep thinking that maybe if you had been with me on tour these past few months, I wouldn’t have gotten so sick. I’m not blaming you; I don’t want it to sound like that.” He pulled his bottom lip in. “But maybe, then, I would have had someone looking out for me for the sake of looking out for _me_ , and not for the sake of the show.”

 

“I’d always look out for you, Harry,” Louis said. “No matter what. You know that.”

 

“I know, Lou.”

 

“Do you?” There was so much seriousness in Louis’ voice, in the way his eyes were focused and glassy, and Harry suddenly felt like he needed to prove that he _did know_ how much Louis had cared for him.

 

“Cape Town,” Harry stated, voice hoarse as he thought back to that night on stage in South Africa. “Things were weird. We weren’t talking. I hadn’t even told anyone that I was having such a bad allergy day, not after the Great Harry Sick of 2014. I think everyone was still on edge from that fucking debacle.” He shook his head as if that would make the memories of those awful three months go away. “Everything was good during the show, and then I must have breathed in some stage smoke or something, because I just couldn’t get any breath control after that. It literally felt like I couldn’t get the air in my lungs _out_ while I was singing,” Harry explained, rubbing his chest. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but you must have heard my voice change. You and I caught eyes just as I was realizing I was running out of usable air and you went right into my next line without question. I know you signaled for my inhaler, because I never asked for it, yet it was ready and waiting on the side of the stage by the next song. We never… _we never talked about it_ , Lou, but I know it was you that night and I’m not sure how far I would have been able to make it if you hadn’t done that for me. It came on so fast; I didn’t even have time to react.”

 

Louis smiled knowingly and rubbed Harry’s arm. “I knew before the show, H.”

 

“How?” Harry asked, confused.

 

“Our rooms were next to teach other at the hotel and you spent the night before coughing up a lung,” Louis said, and Harry could see in his eyes how much he truly cared. “We weren’t talking, but I was worried about you and couldn’t get myself to sleep. I heard your neb go on at like six in the morning and I figured you were having a rough time. I almost knocked on your door. You know, to see if you needed anything, but I held back. I didn’t want to fight. Or make you worse. Seemed like any time we spoke, then, it became an instant fight, so I-”

 

“I almost knocked on _your_ door,” Harry admitted. “But I was afraid of the same thing. We were so _angry_ with each other…”

 

“You could knock on my door or call me at 3 in the morning, love, and I’d still come running to you. Every time. Has nothing to do with where we are relationship-wise; you know I’m not one for labels. I know you aren’t, either.” Louis took Harry’s hands in his. “I don’t know what this is, Harry, this thing we have between us, but whatever it is, it means I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore. I’m tired of fucking running.”

 

Harry laughed at how Louis pronounced ‘fucking’ as ‘fooking’ and coughed. “You’re just saying that because I’m here right now.”

 

Louis shook his head. “I don’t know why you say things like that. You and me…it’s like our souls overlap, you know? We haven’t seen each other in over two years and yet I feel like I haven’t missed a second. Like, I’m not sure distance or time has really separated us at all. _We_ separated ourselves, but our _souls_ … Am I getting to preachy here? I feel like I’m getting too preachy.”

 

“Honestly, I could listen to you preach forever,” Harry said, nudging his fingers softy against Louis’ knuckles.

 

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t undo being in sync with you, Harry. I can’t _not_ gauge your mood or listen to your breathing. It’s automatic. A part of me,” Louis said with a smile. “And I don’t hate it. Not one bit. I wouldn’t undo any of it for the world.”

 

Harry tried not to smile, but couldn’t fight it, his dimples showing. Louis always made him feel like he was 18 again, head over heels in love and unable to stop it. They’d grown so much, had done so much apart, yet they were still so much of the same people they were nearly ten years ago, and the thought was making Harry’s head spin in a good way.

 

“Finally got a dimple smile out of you, H,” Louis said, pleased with himself. “Haven’t seen one of those in a long time.”

 

Louis’ words made Harry blush and cover his face with his hand.

 

“Why are you hiding, beautiful?” Louis asked, pulling Harry’s hand away.

 

“Because I just realized that I probably look like a sick Victorian child with influenza who might not make it through winter,” Harry said, burying his face in the covers. “I know I’m pale,” he said, words muffled. “Maybe that’s why no one recognized us at the concert.”

 

“You’re sick, love. It’ll go away once you’re really feeling better,” Louis encouraged, pulling the covers away from Harry’s head.

 

“I thought I’d be feeling better than I do by now,” Harry said, letting out a deep and chesty cough.

 

“Well, the hormones that keep your lungs open go down when you sleep, and it’s early, so you’re probably feeling shitty because of that. Plus, you’re upset. We both are. I’m sure that’s not helping.”

 

“How much time do we have?” Harry asked, following quickly with, “Don’t tell me what time it is…just…tell me how much time you think we have.”

 

Louis leaned back and glanced at his phone, calculating time differences in his head. “40 minutes,” he said, looking back just in time to see Harry’s face fall. “Hey,” he soothed, his hand on Harry’s cheek. Harry sniffled and a tear fell from his eye, Louis wiping it away with his thumb. “None of that.”

 

“I feel like crap,” Harry whined, his voice cracking. “And I don’t want to go. Not without _you_.” He sniffled, feeling small and ridiculous; he’d definitely cried more in the last week than he had in years. “What if I get sicker?”

 

“Not gonna happen, love. You sound a million times better than you did a week ago.”

 

Harry sniffled, trying not to cry. “What do you think’ll happen if I just don’t show?”

 

“Jason will have your ass on a platter and hand it back to you. Also, he’d probably come bang our door down, and I really don’t want to wake the neighbors so early.” Louis was trying with the humor, but even he wasn’t feeling it.

 

Harry tried to smile, but couldn’t. “Maybe I can milk the sickness thing just a little longer…”

 

“Harry, you know I’d love that more than anything, but we can’t. You know that you can’t-”

 

“Things I can, things I can’t,” Harry whispered, trailing his fingers up and down Louis’ arm, the touch causing every hair on Louis’ body to rise.

 

“I made a playlist for you. For the plane. It’s titled ‘Harry Styles and the Potatoes,’” Louis joked, hoping to get at least a smile out of Harry.

 

Harry smirked, beaming puppy eyes at Louis. He didn’t want to leave this bed. _Their_ bed. He wanted one more morning, one more cup of tea, one more of all of the things he’d shared with Louis that week. He loved making music, but it was always the one thing that _pulled him away from his Lou._

 

“How about I make us some tea and get your neb ready, and we can cuddle before we jump in the shower?” Louis asked, and Harry nodded at the mention of ‘we,’ watching as Louis left the warmth of their bed.

 

Harry stayed beneath the covers and closed his eyes, trying to get one last chunk of sleep in. He could sleep on the plane, he knew, but there was nothing like waking up and being able to go back to sleep in your own bed. He would miss this the most: The being here, with Louis, every morning. A week ago, he wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he was glad things were where they were at that moment. That thought alone could get him through one week without Louis, before he could take a break from writing and hop a plane to LA. One more week of benefit shows for good causes and writing. One more week until he was better enough to actually record. He could do this, he told himself.

 

As the two lay in bed to enjoy the remainder of their morning together, Louis against the headboard and Harry against Louis’ chest, Harry closed his eyes and let the treatment work its magic on his tired lungs. To Harry, It felt like 2012 all over again. Before Eleanor. Before denials and scolding from management, and weeks where neither of them got more than four hours of sleep a night. But it also felt like _after_ all of that, too. Of early mornings in hotel beds and their bed at home in England. _Home_. Where they could be themselves. Could be honest. Could let down their guard and just _be_.

 

“Maybe that’s what I really missed most,” Harry said around his mouthpiece.

 

“Missed what, love,” Louis crooned, lovingly carding his fingers through Harry’s curls.

 

Harry took the mouthpiece out for a moment. “Just being _us_.”

 

“This, you mean?” Louis asked, taking in the sight of Harry, all grown up, in his arms, taking deep draws of medicine from his nebulizer as he looked up at Louis with sweet, easy eyes. Harry nodded and Louis smiled. “This is my most favorite thing in the entire world.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient!
> 
> With everything that's been going on, I felt it was appropriate to take a short break before writing and posting the next chapter.
> 
> I think it's also important that I state that I don't actually believe that Larry is currently going on. I do believe there was something at one time, possibly deep love and friendship. This story, however, is fiction. 100% thrown together from my own mind. I saw this concept on Tumblr that explains how I view fanfiction, and Larry fanfic, in general: "There are countless alternate universes where the same two people get to fall in love over and over again."
> 
> Last thing: What’s something my writing did for you or made you feel? Answer in the comments!

Harry rubbed his face and took a breath to try and push the grogginess from his six-hour flight away. He’d done this flight countless times before, but he’d never had to use every ounce of energy to restrain himself behind his sunglasses in public for three hours the way he had that morning, and he knew that his brain fog was on purpose more than anything; if he didn’t have to think too much about Louis and the week ahead, the better.

 

“Seatbelt,” Jason reminded him before handing him a steaming cup of to-go coffee and shutting the car door. Harry complied, hand fumbling sleepily with the belt as he tried to balance the coffee in his other hand. He’d slept on the plane, but it hadn’t been restful, and his sinuses and lungs were so dry from the cabin air that they were burning, which was making it difficult to focus on anything except for breathing.

 

“You were two seconds away from spilling hot coffee all over yourself,” Jason commented as he secured Harry’s grip on his coffee and buckled his seatbelt for him. “You sure you’re okay, kid?”

           

 _Kid_. Where had that come from? The only person who had ever called him kid was Paul, and that had been ages ago.

           

“I’m good, just sleepy is all.” Harry could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. “Thanks for the coffee.”

           

“Music, sir?” the driver asked. Harry nodded and leaned his head back, trying to take a deep breath but failing. He’d missed some of his meds on the plane, but he didn’t want to take them in front of the driver, in a moving car with windows that were a little less tinted than he’d preferred, and he definitely didn’t want to take it in front of Jase. Having him as company for this trip was going to be like walking on eggshells, and Harry wasn’t sure he had any emotional energy left to keep up the act for an entire day, let alone a week.

 

One whole freaking week, he thought. He could do one week after two years sans Louis in his life. It wasn’t like he had a choice, anyway, with work commitments continuing to pile up. He shook his head, thinking about how he’d always thought that a solo career would mean he could be in the pilot seat, but he hadn’t factored in Louis’ solo career, hadn’t factored Louis in _at all._ Not after the meeting at Modest.

 

As if on cue, Jason pulled his phone out and opened the day’s itinerary. Harry braced for a tightly packed schedule. “You’ve got soundcheck for the charity event at 4. Then some press and getting ready before it begins at seven. I built in some break time before soundcheck, but I’m afraid it’s all uphill from there. Willa’s got your dry cleaning back at the house. We need to figure out how we’re going to time your medication. I forgot to check in with you about that on the plane. Dr. Roberts told me I could call or text if we needed anything. Did you take your…how do you say this…s-sy-?” he asked, looking closely at his phone screen.

 

Harry ignored him and took a sip of the coffee.

 

“Harry, I can’t help you if you don’t answer me, and I need you to be honest about how you’re feeling if we’re going to make this trip work. The last thing we need is you passing out somewhere with pap pics to boot.”

 

“Symbicort,” Harry replied, bringing the coffee to his lips again.

 

“That’s the steroid inhaler?” Jason confirmed.

 

“Yep.” Short but definitely not sweet.

 

“Antibiotics three times a day. Did you take that yet?” Who was this new Jason and what the fuck had he done with cranky, disrespectful Jason? Was he going to pretend he cared all of a sudden because he’d seen him so sick? And why was he being so on top of him about his meds, like Paul always was?

 

Paul. Again with his actions making him think of Paul.

 

“Nope.”

 

“Alright. Dr. Roberts said that you need to eat before you take it, so I think we should grab lunch and check that one off. I’m thinking In-N-Out Burger.”

 

Harry looked over at Jason, confused. “Have you gone mad? You’re not going to try and shove a salad down my throat like you usually do?”

 

“Look, Harry. I know I’ve been a real hard-ass lately, but I need you to know something: I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t looking out for your best interests. And right now, you barely have any energy. I can’t have you getting sicker.”

 

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to be your show pony,” Harry muttered under his breath.

 

Jason pulled his lips inward and laughed. “That’s what you think I see you as?”

 

Harry gave a small nod, winding back his attacks, afraid that Jase would begin his usual tirade now that Harry had been honest.

 

“You’re a powerhouse, Harry. Unique vocals and lyrics. Curls and dimples for days. Fantastic work ethic. The kind of talent and drive people _wish_ they had. You even have a decent attitude, most of the time.”

 

Harry huffed at the last detail.

 

“I know that I push you, but you know that you love it.”

 

Harry side-eyed Jason.

 

“You’d be like this with any manager, and you know it. If you could, you’d drive yourself straight into the ground because you don’t like to stop. You live off of the adrenaline, the _rush_ of performing and putting on a show for everyone around you 24/7, because you’re afraid that if you stop, you won’t be able to pick the charade back up. Do you know how hard it is to use that to its full potential without actually destroying you? The delicate balance that it takes to make The Harry Styles show go on, day-after-day, without a hitch?”

 

All that Harry could focus on was the phrase ‘afraid that if you stop.’ Had Jason whittled that out of Louis? Had he gotten him to spill everything from that day in the car? Harry could feel sweat pricking his back, wanted out of the car immediately. They’d been in the state of California for less than 30 minutes, and Harry was already ready to get back to New York.

 

“Or, maybe you don’t know me and you’ve been talking to Paul,” Harry countered, Jason’s confident face falling slightly. “Maybe for you, it’s just about the money; the more you push me, the more you make. You’re always too busy on your damn phone to pay any actual attention to me and get to know me anyway. And, you called me ‘kid’ when we got into the car. Paul used to call me kid. That was his nickname for me, because I was the youngest, so stop calling me that.”

 

“I did talk to Paul, and he’s fuming, by the way, now that he knows you didn’t tell me about your asthma. But that’s not why I called you ‘kid.’ I didn’t even realize I let the word slip.” Harry could see that Jason’s demeanor was changing at his mention of Paul and the nickname ‘kid,’ and it made him feel slightly guilty. He realized that he was hitting a nerve, that Jason _had nerves_ , and that he didn’t know enough about Jason to know which one or why.

 

“You talked to Louis, then.” Harry’s voice was lower, quieter.

 

Jason sighed, exasperated. “Yes, Harry. I spoke to him this morning. He’s worried about you. Said you weren’t really eating. I have to agree with his assessment that you’ve lost a bit of weight this week. You’ve been pretty sick.” Harry opened his mouth to argue but closed it. He was aware that he’d shed some pounds unintentionally; his jeans had felt so much looser when they’d gotten ready to go to the concert the week before, and his sweatpants and tees were hanging off of his frame. “A burger might do you some good, give you some energy.”

 

“With fries and a milkshake,” Harry countered, throwing his biggest puppy eyes. He was going to milk this for every penny he could, even if he didn’t fully trust Jason just yet.

 

Jason sighed. “You can eat whatever you want as long as we get some pounds back on you. And, you need to take your meds. _On time._ I know you skipped the…that one with the S… the steroid one, but there’s another one here, it says twice a day, and it’s in neb-nebu-”

 

“Nebules. For my nebulizer. I should probably do a treatment before the show.”

 

“Ah, so now you’re going to be compliant and actually help me help you?” Jason joked.

 

“It’s only for the milkshake, Jason. Don’t be silly.” There was a beat before they shared a laugh, the tension between them melting away. Jason asked the driver to hit In-N-Out as music continued to fill the car.

 

“I wish you had told me, Harry,” Jason admitted, his voice quieter than before. Gentler.

 

Harry looked down at his coffee, guilt flowing through him. He had thought about telling him about his asthma that night in Denver. He’d thought he was fine, that he could make it back to the hotel, but his lungs had other plans. He’d managed a slew of puffs from his inhaler in the bathroom after the show. By the time the coughing had come on, he knew it was time to admit that he needed help. Jason had cleared his dressing room so fast that he’d barely had time to register that it was just them and the medics left. There’d been no wheezing, just dry coughs that wouldn’t stop coming.

 

Harry shook his head and pushed a hand through his hair, not wanting to think about that night. He focused on the music in the car, noting that the artist was unfamiliar. The song had a jingle to it, just enough to get his foot bopping.

 

“You never heard of me / Or the weird shit I do and say / That's my favorite thing / That I'm not famous, no,” the pop song crooned, Harry smiling as he took a long sip of his coffee, laughing silently at the lyrics.

 

“And I'm never on T.V. / Throwing up on an L.A. street / nobody judges me / 'Cause I'm not famous, no.” Harry felt the coffee in his mouth come back out at the mention of his Runyon Canyon incident, and though he’d tried to get it back into the little hole in the top of the lid, he knew the moment it came up and through his nose that he’d failed. The warm liquid entering his already sensitive nose had startled him, and he’d opened his mouth in reaction, the coffee spilling out from both his nose and between his lips onto his lap.

 

“What the hell?!” Jason yelled, alarmed, reaching into his briefcase for napkins.

 

Harry could only cough, his already sensitive airways constricting as he fought to clear the rest of the liquid burning his nose and throat. He could feel Jason patting his face down with the rough paper of recyclable napkins, and then his lap, as he gasped, his chest shuddering as he fought to regulate his breathing. He felt for his satchel and opened the small side pocket, retrieving his inhaler and taking a puff before he started coughing even more deeply.

 

“I’m okay,” he sputtered between coughs, his arm coming up to cover his mouth. “M’okay.”

 

“Be honest with me, Harry,” Jason said, and Harry could see that he was nervous, unsure.

 

Harry took a second puff and put his head back against the head rest. “M’fine. Promise.” He closed his eyes, letting out a small cough as he rubbed his chest, his breathing settling.

 

Jason took a few deep breaths of his own, shock from the incident still evident on his face. “I know you love your caffeine, but you didn’t need to literally inhale the coffee, Styles.”

 

Harry laughed lightly as he continued to catch his breath. “That song,” he said, thinking back, “had a line about me throwing up on the 101.”

 

“That was you?” the driver asked, laughing. “The one the fans erected a shrine for?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry said, the word more of a huff than anything else. His breath was coming back, but there was a small wheeze present. He wondered for a moment if he’d actually inhaled some of the coffee. “Really sorry about the mess. I can clean it up when we get to my place.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” the driver said as he pulled up to the window of In-N-Out. “I’ve seen worse.” Jason began to rattle off the order, checking with Harry on the flavor of milkshake.

 

“Neapolitan,” Harry requested, wanting to rub the ache in his chest again but holding back. It was just sore from coughing, he told himself, as he used the remaining napkins to dab at his shirt and jeans. He spent the ride back to his Los Angeles house sipping slowly on the milkshake, the window cracked so that a slight breeze could pass into the car. Doing so had always helped him breathe a little easier, and he was thankful for the California sunshine and salty air.

 

By the time they arrived at the house, Harry had finished half of his milkshake and was ready to do nothing but finish eating and pass out. He could feel a headache coming on from his coughing and prayed he didn’t start running a fever; that was all he needed after such an emotionally rough morning.

 

“You’ve got about two hours before we have to leave for soundcheck, kid.”

 

There it was again. _Kid_.

 

“Sorry. I didn’t…,” Jason started, putting his phone down on the kitchen counter and taking off his suit jacket. “I’m trying not to do that.”

 

“It’s okay,” Harry said with a shrug, grabbing a fry from his bag.

 

“You need to take your antibiotic after you eat, and then again later today after the show. Dr. Roberts said to hold off on the Symbicort until tonight.” Jason grabbed plates from the cabinet and began to unpack their food.

 

“Hey, um,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck as he leaned against the center island. He could feel that his lungs were tiring along with the rest of his body, and while he knew he’d take a treatment before going on stage, something told him he should be a little more honest with Jason than he was used to being. “Paul used to keep my neb ready to go in case I was sick coming off stage.”

 

Jason stopped taking food from the bags. “Oh, yeah, I can do that. Just have to show me how to set it up.”

 

“You know, when I was fighting a bug or what not,” Harry added, so as not to make him suspicious. “I’m, uh, usually pretty guarded about my asthma, which is why I didn’t tell you. I mean, I’ve taken my inhaler on stage. It was always easier that way. And it’s not usually a problem until it’s a problem. I do what I have to do to keep it tamed, but it isn’t a perfect science, as evidenced by the past week.” Harry felt like he was rambling and pulled his lips inward to keep anything else from coming out.

 

“I appreciate you being open with me,” Jason said.

 

“I just don’t want…” Harry trailed, stopping.

 

“Don’t want what?” Jason asked.

 

Harry sighed. “My lungs to meltdown on stage. That would be my worst nightmare.”

 

“You’ve taken your inhaler on stage, though, yeah?”

 

“That’s not…,” Harry said, wondering if he should finish. Would Jason understand if he said it?

 

“Oh, you mean like, _really_ melted down, like needed-”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You feeling up to tonight?” Jason’s eyebrows knitted together in concern.

 

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Harry lied. I just wanted to be…honest.”

 

Jason nodded, pushing Harry’s plate of food toward him.

 

“I’m going to go eat in the living room. You can join me, if you’d like,” Harry offered.

 

Jason smiled, and Harry thought it felt more genuine than all of the rest. Maybe Jason seeing him so sick and vulnerable had changed his approach. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take a break. Eat on the patio.”

 

“What time do you need me up and ready to go?”

 

“Three-thirty. I can wake you up if you want me to.”

 

“Sure, that’d be great.” Harry smiled and headed toward the living room with his food and milkshake in hand.

 

 “Oh, and Harry?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You remind me of my son. That’s why I called you ‘kid.’”


End file.
